I am unaccustomed to anger. The only real fight I ever got into was in the fifth or sixth grade, with a boy new to town who had been, for many weeks, repeatedly antagonizing me to fight him. I had no idea what offense I had committed and was a little scared. I tried as best as I could to avoid him, but one day he just showed up at my house with an entourage about a half dozen strong, and I was shamed, essentially, into coming out. Ironically (I believe this is the correct use of the word), I was pretty obsessed with martial arts at that time (I am, in fact, a red belt in Tang Soo Do, though I haven’t been able to swing a round kick higher than hip height since my teens). But I wasn’t interested in real violence. My fantasies were more Clark Kent in feel, involving circumstances (read: rescuing a girl) that necessitated a controlled expression of badass skills that my profound dweebiness otherwise belied. This fight was probably my one chance to set the record straight w/r/t that hidden badassness, but in the end it was extremely uneventful. He threw punches and kicks, and I dodged them, dancing around the empty corner lot between the townhomes that functioned as a defacto park in the neighborhood (in Glen Burnie, MD) where I grew up. I planted one or two blows and eventually got him into a hold up against a tree―then I let go and walked away. I remember the other kids jeering at me (“what, that’s it?”), but I was done―scared, and really just too emotionally overwhelmed to keep going. The whole thing couldn’t have been more than two or three minutes. It turned out to be some kind of ceremony for my opponent. He was Korean (they moved from Korea), I obviously had a Japanese name, and I think his intention was to have something like an Asian hazing, a test or show of might and skill that initiated him into this new community. The next time I saw him in the lunch line, he showed me, laughing, all the bruises I had raised on him, and we were pretty much chums from that day on.

That is the most violent encounter I have ever had, and the only thing remotely close to a traditional expression of anger (though I wasn’t angry at all). I can almost count the number of times I’ve ever raised my voice. I think friends would describe me as cheerful, laid back, diplomatic, even non-confrontational. It has rarely occurred to me that a problem might be someone else’s fault, much less their malicious intent. I have been aware of despotism and belligerence and even something like “evil,” but these have all been, to me, symptoms of some deeper pain, misdirections of trauma. For most of my life, I’ve considered myself a completely unangry person, and I’ve even thought this might be some sort of deficiency. But I have gotten older. I have lived in dense cities and through flabbergastingly stupid times. Maybe about fifteen years ago, I found myself unconsciously developing a complicated set of rules of conduct. It began on my commutes, how people should behave on trains and buses. Then, how they should act in the grocery store, and definitely on airplanes and driving in traffic. When I began bicycling to work, I very quickly bought a loud bell, and I developed a system of rings to express various degrees of disapproval (four bells from me is a bona fide “fuck you”). I have started, jokingly, to describe myself as an “extroverted misanthrope” (this may be dangerously close to “sociopath”). I laugh it off, but the misanthropy is real. I find people selfish, weak, ignorant, and superficial. Kids these days? They don’t know what the fuck they are doing. Our culture? Shambles. Politics, economy? Abusive, broken, delusional. I am becoming, nauseatingly quickly, a grumpy old man. I’m not yet forty.

That said, my anger feels different from what I imagine other people’s anger is like. When I see protests, I see anger united by cause. When I read or watch a story of vengeance (Once Upon a Time in the West springs immediately to mind as a great example, RIP Ennio Morricone), I see anger shaped into narrative. Even the “white resentment” that has fueled and of course continues to fuel conservative American politics is something that has texture, that has been stacked into a recognizable (if horrifyingly manipulated) shape. Compared to these, my anger feels wildly incoherent. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a lot of experience with it, haven’t learned to tragically fix it to some obsession. My anger is rhizomatic: it just kind of pops up in weird, fruiting bodies. I’ve gotten so angry about a fucked-up dinner that I’ve punched a wall. Just recently, I broke the lid of one of our bins in a fit of rage that it wouldn’t close. A small offense a passing stranger might make will cling for hours. And of course, I’m very angry about the pandemic, and more widely, that the life I have envisioned for myself, what I thought perfectly modest, feels every day more impossible to attain. These larger, abiding angers are especially worrisome. In my worst, angriest moments, my mood is sulfurous and diffuse. It feels like a literal poison. I clench up and try to ride it out like a hangover; it is a completely annihilating experience. That’s the terrible thing about anger: when it grabs a hold of you, you can’t see anything else but the blankness of its face. Hopes, memories, they are pressed flat by its weight, their meaningfulness made inert by anger’s severe polarity. Literally nothing else matters. Anger is the ultimate void. And all I can dream is that sadness, perhaps, will return me from it.


I would characterize this segment of the trip as blissed-out days in Colorado’s wonderful mountain towns punctuated by intense periods of rugged early season, high elevation weather. From our hotel in Durango we headed up the San Juan Scenic Byway to find a camp at Little Molas Lake, a free National Forest campground on a bench above Molas Pass, sitting at about 10,000 feet and staring at beautiful Snowden Peak. This was the beginning of a tour, specifically, of the San Juan Mountains, in far southwest Colorado. It’s long been a favorite area of ours, though prior to this trip we’ve only spent a few short weekends in it. Our general plan was to tour the scenic byway, eventually heading to Telluride, one of our favorite towns on earth. Prior to coronavirus, we planned on attending the Telluride Bluegrass Festival, and its cancellation was one of the major coronavirus losses of our trip. But we kept Telluride as a destination and developed a San Juans itinerary around it.

The lovely Little Molas Lake beneath Snowden Peak

We were a little amazed to find Molas Pass and the campground snow free for our early June arrival, and we got optimistic for our travels through the Rocky Mountains. That optimism was quickly gutted. We enjoyed one warm, clear afternoon at Molas, and then a weather system blew in. It didn’t snow, but there was thunder, hail, and a lot of rain from early evening through the early afternoon of the following day. We squatted it out. I thought we had chosen a good tent spot, but water ended up pooling pretty substantially underneath us, our sleeping pads squishing around on the tent floor with the exact feel of an old school waterbed. When the rain abated for a few minutes, we pulled what we could out of the tent, made coffee, and spent most of the rest of the day sitting in our car watching movies beneath the continuous noise of hard rain, hail, or pine debris pelting the roof. I think it was about here that I started using the term “chaos packing”―having to break camp in gnarly conditions (rain, snow, wind, or bugs), throwing everything haphazardly in the car and sorting it out when things calmed down. We would do a lot of it on this leg. The storm eventually passed, to be replaced by 20+ mph winds for the remaining days we were there. We toughed it out as best as we could, and we did manage to hike up on the Colorado Trail to a ridge beneath Grand Turk for one lovely, if very blustery, afternoon.

When we left Molas we then headed north to Ouray, where we found a nice camp with good cover at the Amphitheater Campground that sits perched above town. The day we arrived it was in the 70s with full sun, and we enjoyed beers on the patio of a newly reopened beer garden. But soon enough we saw another front coming in, and by 6pm we were back at camp putting coats on against the newly falling snow. We ate a quick dinner and tucked ourselves in for a long night of tossing and turning. The snow was very wet and heavy, and all night we had to keep knocking it forcefully from the tent walls to prevent the poles from collapsing. When we emerged in the morning there were about six inches on the ground. I used our winshield scraper to clear some space from the picnic table, made some coffee, and watched the clouds tease apart against the mountain peaks, revealing the other side of the front, clean and crisp blue skies. The snow melted insanely fast, and by early afternoon we were able to hike around the contour of the amphitheater, dodging snow bombs from high tree limbs as the sunshine penetrated the forest.

It was a heavy night.
Hiking around the amphitheater later that day

We stayed in Ouray for two nights, then drove north, out of the mountains and onto the high desert plateau near Ridgway, where we hooked west/southwest toward Placerville, where we then picked up highway 145 heading east straight toward the canyon and headwall of beautiful Telluride. If you follow 145 south where it veers off right before town, you’ll be on the western arm of the San Juan Scenic Byway (the eastern arm runs from Durango to Ridgway), finding numerous camps as you head to Lizard Head Pass. And so that’s what we did, finding a wonderful site in an aspen stand at Sunshine Campground, where we met my favorite campground host so far (and probably of all time), the acerbic but motherly Barb. We stayed for five nights at Sunshine. Most days we would go into Telluride, and most nights we would have dinner and drinks on the knoll above our camp with perfectly beautiful views of Sunshine Peak and Mount Wilson. We did one hike, from Lizard Head Pass, heading up to the Wilson Meadows and the backside of unique looking Lizard Head Mountain (where we would get chased down by yet another thunderstorm)―but most days we were in town.

Ouray (from its park), about three hours before it started to snow
The peculiar Lizard Head Mountain, seen from the Wilson Meadows. That thunderstorm over it nearly caught us.

Telluride is wonderful. In college, when I would roadtrip through the West on summer breaks, I always made a point of stopping there, and when we lived in Denver we would go there at least annually (once for a snowy but fantastic rush-seating attendance of the Telluride Film Festival (we saw a great interview and music video screening (and preview of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) with Michel Gondry). We’ve been through several ski towns on this trip―Telluride, Aspen, Steamboat Springs, and (later) Jackson―and the affluence of them has been bothering me to an unexpected degree. Coming into one, you’ll likely pass enormous mountainside properties that, seemingly vacant for the summer, feel like incredible wastes of resources, fire- and mudslide-prone trophies of conspicuous consumption (or worse, “investments”). To see hundreds of them makes you feel sick. And in town there’s the packaging of rugged Western culture for a feebler consumer class: often gaudy or otherwise mediocre Western art, jewelry, “masculinity” stores (high-end fishing shops, knife shops, both fashionable (Filson) and technical (Arcteryx) outdoor clothing), shmancy restaurants with cowboy flare (Elk Bolognese, for example), and hallucinations of log cabin life in yet more feasts of real-estate porn, this time plastered in the windows of realty office after realty office. Towns were just opening up from coronavirus closures (Colorado on the A-game, free masks and hand sanitizer, service staff all over social distancing protocols (also lots of masked up statues of bears, elk, etc)―a far cry from the barely visible recognition of the pandemic in Utah), and each differed by degrees in terms of population, but all of them had a core of that affluent class, presumably staying at their ski property for the summer, poking around town, eating, shopping, and generally, I assume, trying to enjoy something away from the pandemic. If you’ll allow me to just go ahead and cement this specific misanthropy: many seemed perfectly miserable―bored, irritated with each other, distracted-by-phones, posturing (two words: cowboy hats), and/or peptic. The sense of ignorant aloofness, of a privileged sanctuary away from the dying world, sweetened this admixture yet more. Aspen was definitely the worst.

But Telluride, while not completely free from these criticisms, remains wonderful. Definitely rich people with ski properties (and a bewildering amount of teenagers, like, almost dystopian amounts), but Telluride retains its crunchy Colorado mountain town living-the-good-life-as-a-dirtbag feel (see in this category, also: Durango, Ouray, Nederland). It is also insanely beautiful, a U-shaped valley terminating at a picture-perfect headwall with picture-perfect waterfall. And the year-round locals are downright nice: chatty, carefree, but sharp-witted and knowledgeable. In Utah, a Telluride couple, hiking a few minutes behind us in Dark Canyon, followed our mudprints and caught up with us at our car, chatting with us for a long time (we were going to try to meet them in Telluride but got cold coronavirus feet about it). A server we had, originally from New Orleans, told us a remarkable story about his relocation there after Katrina (can you believe living through Katrina and ending up in Telluride?). Everything’s “brother-this” and “brother-that” and “no worries” and “this weather, right?” and you just find yourself smiling all the time. We’ve lived in two pretty antisocial, Nordic-culture cities (Minneapolis and Seattle), so friendliness is generally something we glom onto, but Colorado takes the cake, especially Telluride. And then there’s Town Park, the greatest city park in America. It “finishes” Telluride, as it were, right at the end of town, tucked against that headwall. First, you can camp there (the campground was closed up until the day we left; hence Sunshine). They have a great pool, coin showers, playfields, bandshell, a sporty enough creek to tube/SUP/swim, skate park, and, and, tennis courts, reservable, for free. We got into a routine of getting to Town Park in the morning, playing tennis, reserving a court time for the next day (my wife, always, so generous with these sorts of logistics), showering, having lunch (either at a restaurant (we are still only eating outside) or our own), and then spending a few hours on the free Town Park wifi (cell service remained poor) to Zoom and work on future logistics (a Maroon Bells backpack (again my wife for the win on scoring permits), AirBnB on the front range, rental with friends in Michigan, the Wyoming and Montana leg, Denali and Alaska travel/coronavirus stuff) while a fly-fishing class or couple-with-slackline or endless dogs-wearing-bandannas did their thing around us (okay another parenthesis: the showers + internet combo cannot be stressed enough―just enough of these two (at places like Telluride or some National Park campgrounds) has made it possible for us to camp most of the time and still feel human and able to take care of the constant planning this improvised/fucked-up-from-coronavirus leg has required). And it was god damn sunny for most of it.

Telluride, just opening up (in a few days, this side of the street would be fenced off and populated with outdoor seating and sanitation kiosks for all the restaurants); June is pride month, I’ll remind you, hence the flags
Love this! My people!
My favorite tennis court on earth, in Town Park

Yet, I got mad. One afternoon in particular, we were back at camp, and I got drunk on rosé and sat in the hammock looking at the mountains, stewing on the dark void of my anger (yes, rosé). I have been more and more prone to grumpiness on these recent legs, and I’ve been trying to figure out why. I was almost desperate to get to the mountains. I consider the mountains my spirit place. We’ve been seeing a lot of them, ones I’ve wanted to see for a long time. We’ve been among marmots, in summer snowfields, spring flowers, blasting our legs on steep vertical and looking constantly up―it’s everything I wanted. But sitting in Telluride made palpable two great losses from the coronavirus. First, we learned that Wonder Lake in Denali would not open for the season. Wonder Lake sits at the end of Denali’s 90-mile park road, and it has anchored our forthcoming trip there; it was the “holy place” where we were going to connect with the tundra, socialize with other hikers, and where I would begin my three-week trip back to the park entrance. The rest of our itinerary, for the most part, has remained intact (more on that later), but the loss of Wonder Lake both created new complications/planning and ruined an emotional excitement we’ve had about that trip. Second was the accumulating anguish of sitting day after day in Town Park, picturing what it would have been like during the bluegrass festival. It was already so nice there, but then to think to be there for a music festival, one we’ve wanted to go to for nearly two decades? I could hear the mandolin light and fast in my mind, smell the fogs of OG Kush, playact all the conversations we were supposed to have (anyone, for instance, who recognized my Station Inn Nashville shirt). We were supposed to have that specific joy. In both cases, it wasn’t just the loss, but the immense imaginational volume I had built up prior to it. For months I’ve pictured both the bluegrass festival and Wonder Lake with increasingly sophisticated construction, long dreams lying in our tent or driving a highway. I’ve been excited about a lot of things on our trip, and many, many of them have happened with great presence, surprise, and satisfaction (and no doubt, many other people have way more to be angry about with COVID), but both of these were crucial “homecomings” for us. I was homesick for them. And it made me mad.

Sunshine Peak and Mount Wilson at sunset, viewed from the knoll just above our camp


After Telluride, we left the San Juans and made our way to the Maroon Bells (in the White River National Forest, the Elk Mountains, near Aspen; or just Google a picture of “Colorado” and that’s them) via the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, dropping down out of the mountains and onto the plateau for a single night canyon-side. It felt strange but reassuring to be back in high desert environments, walking shrub forests of juniper, pinyon pine, and gambel oak as we had done nearly all throughout Utah. The canyon itself is toweringly steep and narrow, and the light that does catch the rapids of the Gunnison River, in its only occasionally viewable presence below, glints with a special, secretive luminescence. Lingering wildfire smoke gave the sunset at Sunset Point (yup) a heady, frothy volume. Later, following our dinner in camp, I would take a drunken hike through head-high stands of oak, and down to the rim, where I had the canyon to myself in the last light (protip: night hikes from busy camps almost always pay off in main-feature solitude (see: the amphitheater trail in Signal Mountain campground in the Grand Tetons)).

A wildfire haze at sunset at the Black Canyon of the Gunnison

Back into the mountains the next day, north toward Carbondale over McClure Pass, then east on a zippy highway full of BMWs and Audis on the way into Aspen. Here’s another piece of camp advice: never trust a “Campground Full” sign. Couple this with friendliness toward rangers/concessionaires, and you’ve got at least a 50/50 chance of finding something overlooked or unnecessarily sequestered. And so we got a perfectly lovely site at Silver Queen just below Maroon Lake, where we prepped our packs and made friends with a retiree from Florida and a friendly young couple from Atlanta with whom we ended up drinking far too much bourbon by propane lamp and social distance. The next morning we were at Maroon Lake lickety split, taking the standard-issue photos of the Bells―beautiful in early season snow clad―then making our way a fairly easy three miles up to Crater Lake (not that Crater Lake) for a two-night basecamp. There is a popular and amazing looking loop, the so-called Four Pass Loop, but it was still pretty early with a lot of snow at the passes, so we opted instead for a more relaxed itinerary of paddling around the lake (I brought the packraft up) for one day and up to Buckskin Pass (one of the four passes) for another. It felt great to be backpacking, and while Crater Lake saw numerous day visitors there was still plenty of space to have quiet. We paddled all that first afternoon, lounging around the lakeshore. By dinner we were completely alone (not even other backpackers, as far as we could tell), eating on the lakeshore, when suddenly a silver fox appeared in the knee-high vegetation. I’ve seen a lot of animals, even other foxes, but something about this one, with her lingering winter coat glittery in the late light, felt especially fantastic, fairytale, perfect. She stared us down, pranced a few paces away, stared again, and so on.

Maroon Bells, a Colorado classic
The Bells, viewed from the middle of Crater Lake. Yes those sandals are homemade
A nice pan of Crater Lake with the Bells on the right

The next day, hiking to Buckskin Pass, was what felt like our first real entrance into alpine environments, even though we’d been in Colorado for weeks by this point. Glacier Lilies sprung from the sodden upper soils that were criss-crossed with braided snowmelt creeks, one’s breath felt clean in the air, pikas chirped, and marmots whistled. The pass itself retained a substantial, heavily corniced snowfield, but there was an obvious talus route to its edge, and we got atop the pass without major ado. It was absolutely magnificent, one of the grandest viewpoints I’ve ever enjoyed, the Bells on one side, the massive scooped face of Snowmass defining the other. We sat there for awhile, half a dozen marmots browsing casually all around us. We had some snacks, I took a ton of pictures, and we watched two people approach steadily from Snowmass Lake. In a way, we waited for them. It was a father and son from Minnesota. The son had just graduated from highschool and was off to UMN, where I had done my MFA, to study engineering. The father was himself an engineer, in ceramics, for 3M (think: sandpaper). We talked for nearly 45 minutes, about coronavirus, the college experience, Minneapolis, navigating careers, and a great deal about the West. Many, many times on the trail we’ve met parent/child duos, and every time we’ve been enamored with the experience they were trying to give to each other (sometimes the parent to child, sometimes child to parent (thinking here of the daughter/father we helped get into Peak-a-boo canyon, the father looking pretty beat up afterward at the trailhead where we sat in the car waiting out 40mph winds, him just slogging through them like some kind of self-flagellation), lamenting that our own parents weren’t outdoorsy when we were children, and that we didn’t have children to subject to our outdoor interests. And it has remained odd to connect so swiftly with strangers in remote locations; indeed, there is a bit of a formula, the more miles or vertical feet from a trailhead, the more minutes your conversation will be. When I think about my solo trip in Alaska, in very remote locations, I think often about the possibility of running into other people, and what I will say.

Views of the valley on the hike up to Buckskin Pass
Glacier Lilies festooning the upper meadows on the way to Buckskin Pass
Marmot at Buckskin Pass
A pan of Buckskin Pass, Bells on the left and, in the distance on the right, Snowmass Peak. Can you spot my wife on the pass? She’s wearing a black coat.


After a nice breakfast after the Bells in Aspen, driving over Independence Pass and north toward Frisco and I-70, I tried very hard to commit to my memory the particular rain that had just started falling: big, gloopy drops that hit our windshield percussively, popping like the little paper bundles of gunpowder that have a different name depending on where you grew up (from Wikipedia: “Bang snaps (also known as Devil Bangers, Lil’ Splodeys, Throwdowns, snap-its, poppers, whack-pops, poppies, pop-its, snappers, Snap Dragons, whip’n pops, Pop Pop Snappers, whipper snappers, fun snaps, party snaps, pop pops, whiz-bangers, cherry poppers, pop rocks, snap’n pops or bangers. . . .”). As we hit Frisco and I-70, the rain grew fine, and our climb to the Eisenhower tunnel was a bituminously greasy, slick-misted affair that had me pretty white-knuckled around the construction and trucks (it was also the first time I’d driven on an interstate since our first day in Utah (which was, itself, only a five minute stretch)). I don’t know what it was, but for some reason I started a personal project of trying to remember every rainfall. This one was unfun, but memorable nonetheless. It turned the I-70 corridor, something I’ve driven numerous times and was very eager to drive again (it having become a notable landmark in the weathered map of my personal mythology), into a confusing replica of the I-90 corridor over Snoqualmie Pass in Washington, which is so often wet with rain, which itself is something I’ve driven numerous times though have yet to have so distinctly mythologized. I couldn’t tell if the two mountain interstates were being married in an illuminating union―something about how home is everywhere―or if the experience of the drive that I wanted to have was simply being disallowed, not completely unlike Wonder Lake or the Telluride Bluegrass Festival.

We were heading to the Front Range, specifically to Lafayette, outside of Boulder (earlier in our trip we’d had a wonderful lunch in a busy park in Lafayette, LA (birthplace of Zydeco); in Memphis, we went to a blues jam at Lafayettes in Cooper-Union), where a good friend of ours lives and runs an apothecary. We have two very good, longtime friends in Colorado who moved out there around the same time we did, right after college, but stayed. Initially we had been making plans to rent a house in the mountains with them and their families, along with a third mutual friend from Indiana and his family (he was supposed to do the Canyonlands trip with us). Coronavirus messed all of that up, no one comfortable making plans to share a space with so much in upheaval. By the time we got to Colorado, we were all feeling better about seeing each other, but it was too late to organize a rental. So my wife and I get one for ourselves, nearby, for six nights. It was the fastest six nights I’ve ever lived. We binge watched The Watchmen (free from HBO for that week in response to Trump’s Tulsa rally), ran numerous errands (finally fixing a broken arm on our roofbox; going into an REI for the first time; endless groceries), cooked and dehydrated several weeks of backpacking food, and talked, for hours, late into afternoons and even later into evenings, with our longlost friends. It was late June, and this was the first time we’d seen someone we know, in person, since February. It wasn’t that it felt strange, or good, to reconnect, but that it felt so natural. Overwhelmingly natural, if such a characteristic exists. People whom you know really well, whom you love, distance with them can often feel almost amusingly superficial: a little more gray hair, children more talkative, different car, different diet maybe, but it all feels like costuming. The core remains, the person immovable in history. This maybe bespeaks our friends’ own natural sociality, but I still found it remarkable. We just talked, no anxiety (I’ve had a hard time managing my impulse to just prattle on in Zooms and phone calls, as in these writings, about our travels), no searching silences, just a hungry, relishing conversation. Same person, different time.

And yet, of course, we all change. Or we all advance. Our friend S. is my wife’s friend from childhood. She is tall and noticeably beautiful, and she talks with a rapid angularity, constantly pivoting to make room for what you have to say (a skill that suits motherhood and its endless interruptions really well). She had a long career as a technical writer that she left several years ago. She is a trained yoga instructor but has mostly done work for her children’s school (marketing and other community engagements) since her career shift. Her husband is a healthcare worker and avid photographer. He is at high risk for coronavirus exposure, and so we did not see him (our time with S. was spent outside, in masks, personal bowls of popcorn). We talked about change. The Front Range (Denver, Boulder, etc) has grown quickly since we were there, and traffic, real estate, and culture have gotten more crowded, harder to do. Its such a widespread urban story, and its hard to untangle it from our own aging and decreasing tolerance for high-paced life, but I think it’s pretty demonstrably true that cities have gotten more difficult to live in. We talked about the hidden forces of affluence, a disgust for conspicuous consumption, and the mixed up feelings of not fitting into a place you’ve lived in for so long, that has changed beneath you. And the mixed-up feelings of your own change: that S., for instance, often forgets how committed to yoga she once was (for my part, I once played the drums, I once, it seems, wrote poems). On this trip, I’m often very far from a mirror, so when I catch sight of myself in the rare one I encounter, I’m a bit startled. That’s sort of what S. sounded like, in our conversation, startled by seeing herself in those quick, passing glances. And yet happy, or on the other side of worry, as she has always struck me.

Our friend F. moves and talks like fabric: fluid, relaxed, with an earthy fibrousness that gives her a bit of tooth. She laughs in a way that makes you feel like what you said is truly funny. She is an herbalist and owns a local body and wellness store, an apothecary of plant- and mineral-based remedies. Some of her products have become my absolute favorite: her carrot and rose face cream, her coriander under arm spray, her mint and frankincense tooth powder, and her neroli hydrosol. We spent an afternoon crawdad fishing with her family (i.e. we sat in camping chairs drinking beers while her children played around in the creek), and then they hosted us for dinner (mostly in their backyard). We talked a lot about running a small business, about growth, risk, and work-life balance, and of course about coronavirus and the small business relief funds (which she received). Her husband left his longtime career as an electrician and telecommunications technician and has just finished school for computer programming. We talked a lot about trying to enter tech in middle age. We talked about changing Colorado, too, and we talked, definitely, about our travels, about music and our disappointment with the canceled Telluride Bluegrass Festival (they themselves had plans to attend Rockygrass, a sister festival in Lyons). As with S. there was this sense of laying claim to the good things you can lay claim to in the midst of change, growing challenges, an ever more expensive cost of living. As with S. it was about the incremental process of community: helping build it, watching it shift, and adjusting oneself. During the conversation it was so apparent to me, for better or worse, that community has become very abstract to my wife and I―it’s something we merely observe. But right then, with F. and her husband, that was our community. We talked and talked, drank whisky, talked more, until it was two in the morning, a time of day I hadn’t touched (apart from tent-induced insomnia) since Mardi Gras. The quiet neighborhood on our walk home, the night, the black air, swam all around us―it felt like you could see, for a brief moment, whatever it is that has been watching you this whole time.

―Bozeman, MT, July 13, 2020

Southern Utah

All roads come with some worry. Or maybe it’s that worry is a kind of road. Traveling interstate highways at fast speeds has seized me with worries about catastrophic accidents. Two-lane country roads in conservative Southern states had me anxious about having plates from a northern state. In the Mojave desert, we sailed up and down tight hills on 55mph roads that rapidly toggled visibility, topping out with trampolining momentum and bottoming out hard in washes. In large cities I worry about traffic and directions. On dark nights, I worry about falling asleep. I worry about hitting deer, cattle, and construction workers. I worry about getting pulled over. I worry about trucks and RVs and sports cars and motorcycles. I worry incessantly that I’ll have to pee and won’t be able to. Most of all, on this trip, I’ve worried about our roofbox and the load rating of our sunroof, that the box will come flying off, or that our roof will collapse at highway speeds.

But in southern Utah, the vast networks of unpaved roads have brought a whole new league of worry. For most of my life, I’ve delighted in dirt roads. In Washington State, I would fly down forest service roads to trailheads and camps, blasting music, feeling wild. But now that we are living out of our car, I’ve become anxious. Part of it was the recommendation from a service technician in Metairie, Louisiana―probably early―that we replace our tires. Part of it is having irreparably shredded a tire on an invisible piece of debris driving the otherwise perfectly nice Dosewallips Road on the eastern side of the Olympic peninsula. Part of it is the fact that nearly a third of the information on the Grand Canyon-Parashant National Monument website―which I’d spent a fair amount of time on planning this leg―is devoted to the kinds of vehicles and tires you need to drive their roads. Whatever the reasons, we came into Utah, where dirt roads are a fact of life, with worry on my mind about our car. Those worries have met a diversity of road conditions. House Rock Valley Road, which skirts the Vermillion Cliffs National Monument, has ruts that get to be 18 inches deep. Cottonwood Canyon Road, which traverses a massive section of Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, is full of sharp rocks and gravel, especially on its hill climbs. Hole-in-the-Rock Road, which travels from the town of Escalante through slot-canyon country toward Glen Canyon, is teeth-rattlingly washboarded for at least 40 miles (probably more―that’s just the section we drove). Elk Ridge Road, which travels the eastern lip of Dark Canyon in Bears Ears National Monument and the Manti-La Sal National Forest, is so remote it feels like it would take days to get help if you needed it. The Moki Dugway, which we just drove today (of this first draft), offers 1,200 feet of 11% grade switchbacks on loose gravel for vertiginous, unrailed views of the Valley of the Gods below. I (or my wife) have gripped the steering wheel hard for these roads, driven slowly, dodging potholes, rocks, logs, ruts, upheavals, streams, and cattle (we actually drove, literally, through a cattle drive, complete with shirt-tucked cow herders chatting casually atop their horses in the clean air to the side of the chaos). Camping off these roads, I’d check our tires every morning, the distance into town a number I’d hold in my head. Worry has been with me ever since we got back on the road, but it hasn’t been the kind of worry I thought I was going to have.


I thought I was going to be worrying about coronavirus, but in Utah, the pandemic has had less presence. Many businesses remain closed, but really, there aren’t very many businesses to begin with. Our sense of “the social” has been watching a truck-trailer drive some other dirt road on the other side of the valley we are in, or hearing the whine of OHV’s on the other side of some butte, or, most social of all, chatting with the occasional hiker on a trail. There is so much wide-open and freely accessible terrain―and the culture is definitely one of self-sufficiency and spreading out―that distancing is pretty built in. The exceptions have been the few towns that service these remote lands, which on weekends we’ve seen jammed with people, milling around in parking lots or waiting in burger joint lines, and at frontcountry trailheads in some of the just-reopened National Parks, which have also been jammed, especially on weekends. In indoor settings, I’d estimate 20% of people wear masks; outside, hardly anyone at all does. We’ve been distressed, almost reflexively, to see crowds, and it has kept a pressure on us to really limit our interactions and really live, with everything we have, out of our car.

Swirly formations of Coyote Buttes South

We left Yucca Valley on May 11th. Initially we had plans to leave April 30th and spend our May 1, 10-year wedding anniversary in Big Sur. Two days before we were supposed to leave the county extended the closure of the area, and the itinerary we had rebooked (after it was canceled from the first closure) was lost. So we extended our stay in Yucca for ten days and celebrated our anniversary with an elaborate home cooked meal (a “Provence Picnic” at the heart of which was actually the famed Ligurian focaccia), a bottle of mescal, and a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape (one of of our go-to “treat” wines). On the remaining days of our extension we planned the ever-living shit out of southern Utah, 20 browser tabs of BLM, National Monument, National Park, National Forest, Outdoor Project, and tourism websites open at a time. Here is our driving, camping, hiking, and backpacking itinerary of Utah in list form:

1. Two nights at a road camp near Oak Grove in the Pine Mountains outside of St. George, hiking the Highline Trail there.

2. Drive through Zion National Park (just reopened the day we did it) and HWY 9 Scenic Drive, down through Kanab and toward the Arizona border.

3. Then two nights at the Stateline Campground (on House-Rock-Valley Road; terminus of the Arizona Trail), hiking Coyote Buttes South in the Vermillion Cliffs National Monument.

Coyote Buttes South

4. Drive back west and through Kanab, then up through Bryce Canyon National Park and the scenic drive there (opened the day before we did it), over the pass on Scenic Byway 12, and down toward Cannonville.

Overlook of Bryce Canyon

5. Two nights off of Cottonwood Canyon Road in Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, scrambling around the buttes and hoodoos with views onto Big Dry Valley and Kodachrome Basin.

6. Continue on Scenic Byway 12 through the town of Escalante and up onto New Home Bench in the Phipps-Death Hollow ISA WSA (astonishingly beautiful drive, perhaps the the prettiest drive we’ve ever done), down into the town of Boulder, then down the Burr Trail Road.

7. Two nights at GSENM/BLM Campground Deer Creek (first wet camp since Oak Grove, first showers (bag/solar) since we left California), exploring a little bit up Deer Creek.

8. Back to Escalante and then down Hole-in-the-Rock Road, hiking the Peek-a-Boo/Spooky Slot Canyons loop, then onto the Red Well trailhead for Coyote Gulch. Camp at the TH (after waiting out 40+ mph winds, drinking cold beers in the car and watching the sunset).

Chamber in Peek-a-Boo Slot Canyon
Barely shoulder-width clearance in Spooky Slot Canyon

9. Two-night backpack of Coyote Gulch (thinking about all the people we would have loved to bring along on it (some nieces especially)), about a 25mi out-and-back, making it almost to the Escalante River (shy by about 1000 feet, it turns out).

Alcove in Coyote Gulch
Early morning sun through Jacob Hamlin Arch in Coyote Gulch

10. Super fun drive out of Hole-in-the-Rock (wife sailing over the washboard; drinking roadies still cold from the cooler; forgetting about car worries), then back north through Boulder, camping one night in higher elevation National Forest camp (off FR 165 in the Dixie National Forest), enjoying the Ponderosa pines, cooler temps, and lack of bugs.

11. Continue north on Scenic Byway 12 higher into the mountains, camping again in Dixie NF at Oak Creek Campground for another night, driving down into the town of Torrey for groceries/internet/phone calls (second bag/solar showers).

12. Then up to to Capitol Reef National Park (weekend; frontcountry too busy!), doing a one-night backpack hiking east down Pleasant Creek (saw only one other party in that much more remote area, cool kids from SLC) where we camped in a wash at the mouth of a surprise slot canyon near the park boundary (when you start to see a lot of footprints, it’s sometimes worth following them).

Elegant debris in a hidden slot canyon in Capitol Reef

13. Pack out of Pleasant Creek, and, now on HWY 24, head east (through remote moonscapes) then south (hooking up with SR 95) toward Hite in a sliver of Glen Canyon National Recreation Area (parade of Memorial Day weekend boaters on the road in the opposite direction).

14. Two nights at Hite Campground in the GCNRA (on Memorial Day; had the 40+ site camp nearly to ourselves; test run of a fully loaded packraft (for Alaska) on the Colorado River; first actual plumbing showers―took three).

15. Continue on SR 95 following lovely Fry Canyon into Blanding (first liquor store since California) and then Monticello; drove into Manti-La Sal National Forest and onto Elk Ridge Road, camping one night in the pretty meadows of the ridge.

16. Then a two-night backpack down into Dark Canyon, hiking to Scorub Canyon/Horse Pasture from The Notch (very remote, saw only one other party in the canyon over the two days). Hiked up into a large alcove and found Puebloan (I think) ruins.

Our camp at Horse Pasture in Dark Canyon
Overlooking Horse Pasture from an alcove in Dark Canyon; our tent is a white dot at the upper right corner of the pasture

17. Drive back to Blanding and Monticello and up toward the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park through the Indian Creek unit of Bears Ears National Monument, camping one night at BLM camp Hamburger Rocks (camps tucked up against cool patty-like formations; wicked thunderstorm blew through and we had to keep our backs up against the tent wall for about an hour).

18. One-night backpack (planned two nights, ended up just hiking out second night) in Needles, camping at Devil’s Pocket (beautiful sunset over a lovely hidden meadow), doing a roughly 17mi loop around Chesler Park and up Big Spring Canyon, over continuous playgrounds of slickrock formations and variously sized canyons with some small slot sections; 95+ degrees and full water carry (35lb packs) had us zapped.

Hiking over slickrock in the Needles of Canyonlands
Sunset on the meadow at Devil’s Pocket in the Needles

19. Hiking out we met some other hikers who told us about some potholes on Indian Creek just past Hamburger Rocks; found them and delighted in a refreshing swim, jumping 12 foot overhangs into the deep swimming hole; beautiful dispersed camp nearby on the lip of a small drainage overlooking the lower creek valley.

Our pretty BLM camp in the Indian Creek unit of Bears Ears National Monument

20. Back to Blanding (maybe we should we live there), charmed by (now open) information center staff person who suggested the Valley of the Gods; drove there and stopped in Bluff for Navajo Tacos (first restaurant meal in two months); got to Valley of the Gods, skirted it, then went up the Moki Dugway; made a bad choice to keep heading north to hookup with 95 again, an unplanned two-hour detour on what was supposed to be a straight-drive day to Durango, CO (sorry again to my wife).

21. Arrive into a just reopened Durango for hotel showers and awesome Himalayan food takeout (The Silence of the Lambs just starting on HBO―weird choice, maybe, but so good!)

Most of that time we had no cell or internet service, and coming back online (especially in Blanding) was, as it was when the coronavirus shutdowns were escalating in March, unnerving. There is nothing I can write that is adequate to the outrage of this moment, the murder of George Floyd, especially, but also as a necessary recognition of the ongoing violence against the black community and the shameful continuity of historic, systemic, and institutionalized racism. My wife and I, like many, have had long conversations in our camps about the pieces that are needed, police reform, criminal justice reform, more just economic initiatives, and, especially, more just educational systems and family and community resources. These are recapitulations of conversations we’ve had for years, having lived so long near imperiled black communities in Chicago, and when I was in academic publishing there, I grew somewhat close to the ideas of sociologist Loic Wacquant, who has argued that many blighted urban communities (“ghettos”) are inherently punitive and carceral states, one’s that, as he argues, produce race, the stigmatized marks of race―in a word, that police violence against black men is part of a horrific racist cycle that is woefully, deeply entangled in our national culture. His sophisticated but sensible theories, and adjacent research on things like early childhood education, economic justice, and proper community investment, help outline the complexity of the problems that need solving. In my former life, I did work that at least contributed to seeing some of these problems, and my wife did work that built and optimized programs meant to address some of them.

On this sabbatical, we are taking a break from that work, and now, that feels, frankly, wrong. Seeing images of the protests―seas of people wearing pandemic masks―has been powerful. The combined moment (protest and pandemic) is extraordinary and radical, of the complexity and fluidity and force that precisely describes, it feels, our late history. Seeing these images in the parking lot of a grocery store in rural Utah feels insane. We anticipated that this year was going to be intense―for lack of a better word―but it has still surprised us with its intensity. We were hoping our trip would put us in touch with a real America, but right now we just feel far away from it, even as we are nearly in its dead center. We feel that terrible word we’ve been trying to size up: estranged.

So I search to argue in the form of my above numbered itinerary, our recreation, that some other America does exist, is ongoing. It’s summer now. Families are out doing what they can. Right now, at the little alpine lake in the San Juan Mountains where I’m writing this (next draft :)), folks are walking their dogs and blowing up inflatable kayaks, casting for Colorado River Cutthroat all along the lakeshore. It’s perfectly idyllic. And in Utah we met, day after day, the most beautiful panoramas, the most fascinating geological presences. The swirls and buttes and hoodoos and perfect red sands of Coyote Buttes evinced an epic sculpture gallery architecturally elaborated with hidden platforms and walls and catwalks. The tight and insanely fluid curves of slot canyons are the earth in its most precise and elegant directives, a kind of pure touch (like walking the curve of a ceramic bowl) of refined geometry, their occasional chambers feeling like sudden, illuminated secrets. The alcoves of Coyote Gulch, and the immaculate echoes they throw back, feel like material manifestations of time itself, the imprint of dreaming millennia of flowing water. And the Needles are so dense it boggles the mind: land, place, and direction are all in such upheaval one becomes convinced of an alternate universe of design, an entirely different visual order. America is large and still teems with surprising beauty.

But my sense, with all this beauty, is that it stands apart. It is of itself and not for anyone. These are also very hostile places. The sun and wind were nearly unrelenting. Fleas, mosquitoes, and biting flies found us just about everywhere. Water was extraordinarily scarce. Routes were poorly marked, if at all (should we walk in the creek, up the deep sand hill, or bushwack the thick brush?). It is rugged, and we had to live and move ruggedly to get through it. Our parents had asked us if we were anxious traveling with coronavirus, and we had to be honest that we were more anxious about water sources and keeping ourselves and our gear reasonably clean. For days the best we could do was wash our faces, arm pits, and groins from water bottles. Sand blew constantly into our tents and on our bedding, clogging our zippers and stinging our eyes. The upside is that we were self-sufficient, could stay mostly clear of crowds, spend little time in indoor places, and keep our impact extremely low.

I’ve been trying to understand how whatever skills or knowledge or insights we’ve gained from these experiences might apply to the larger social crises the world is in. I think we’ve been, in a purposeful way, engaging some Rousseauian idea of a self-sufficient American, hearty independence in wild environments. These ideas are inherent to the American West, and for myself, I’ve cherished them as means to an interaction with nature that has always, since my childhood, given me something (and something to take into the social world) that nothing else can. But right now I don’t know what that thing is. Which is not to say giving up on it is any better. I have urges to join protests, get back online, start being part of other people and their projects again―but I have too many questions, too many suspicions, about how it all works right now. Part of it, absolutely, is mass and social media, and one thing I’m more certain of is that whatever form my life takes after our travels, its mediatized elements will be dramatically altered. I don’t know if that’s helpful, and I don’t know how to stay engaged in the discourses and work we need to bring our society to the place it should be (the place it is criminal, at this point in history, not to be), but I have to believe there is a way that doesn’t constantly, instantly, vertiginously leverage those discourses toward commercial or social gain (this being, primarily, my sickness with media). What can I find in nature that is worthwhile to bring back to our togetherness, our estranged togetherness? We’ve made it to the mountains. I still hope I can find out.

­—Little Molas Lake, San Juan Mountains, CO, June 7, 2020


1. I’m extremely bored.

2. No I’m not bored. I’m restless. We’ve been sheltering-in-place for a month. During this period we’ve left the house eight times: 1. a grocery run; 2. drive to a small bodega at the end of our neighborhood; 3. drop our car at the mechanic (taxi home; snowing/raining); 4. walk around the neighborhood; 5. pick up our car at the mechanic (9-mile walk into town; sunny/flowers blooming) + drive to Palm Springs for another grocery run (Whole Foods search for tofu; no tofu); 6. leisure drive to Pioneer Town; 7. leisure drive to Integratron (we initially had a soundbath reservation; just checking it out); 8. tennis (testing the waters of outdoor activity) + grocery run (Walmart search for tofu; no tofu).

3. A lot of folks have been in quarantine much longer. A lot of folks are not bored. Many of our friends are actually busier at work. Many have children. We’ve had Zoom calls for happy hour, kids eating; ones mid-morning on the weekend with children showing off their toys, artwork, pets; night calls midweek with tired parents who’ve just put the kids to bed (at some point, often, both parents will suddenly dart their eyes offscreen, their child awake (standing creepily still in the crack of the bedroom door)). The number one quarantine issue? Children. And taking care of them while keeping a job. We have no children or jobs.

4. We’ve been watching a lot of movies. The Criterion Channel has a series called “Observations on Film Art,” small craft discussions on specific films given by film scholars Kristin Thompson, David Bordwell, and Jeff Smith. Discussions include topics such as three-point lighting, analytical editing, narrative and subjective perspective, and mise en scène. We typically watch them mid-afternoon during the week, and in the evenings we’ll watch one of the films discussed. We call it “film school.” We’ve also been watching non-Criterion movies. We call that “junkfood.”


5. The world now is characterized by invisibility. There is a simple two-part structure to this. The first part is the coronavirus itself, which is invisible. It’s invisibility, as it were, plagues us. I don’t mean the virus itself but specifically its invisibility. The threat of contagion is a contemporary obsession, hence our fascination with zombies and vampires (this is an idea from my friend Carrie). And contagion is tied up in invisibility. Of course pathogens are essentially invisible. These past months, how many times have we visualized the aerosol physics of a sneeze or the infinitesimal transactions of an external surface to our hands and then to our faces? Have we imagined the virus as a globular mass moving like a weather system across a map? Have we thought of it as a binary system, a yes-or-no equation compiled into an exponential curve on a graph? I think that these are all just models to help us see something invisible. The second part of the two-part structure is the world itself, which has become invisible. City streets are empty, businesses dark, playgrounds quiet. The very photographs of these dramatically emptied places feel, themselves, empty, simply tricks of light (Zoom calls can feel this way, too). And of course no other news embodies our discourse, not even the US election―all other facets of the world have become invisible. Our relationships have been emptied of their physical substantiation. I believe that, for many of us, our desires have become invisible (the word that keeps occurring to me as I see folks on video is “enervated”). The future is very much invisible.

6. Yucca Valley has felt pretty remote. We are thousands of miles away from most of the people whom we know. We are not in anything like a city, which is what we are most familiar with. Our home is not ours, nor most of the things in it. But we are situated on an elevated acreage at the foothills of some mountains, in the middle of the Mojave desert, and from here we have the distinct feeling that we can look out across the world. It is a vantage. From it, we’ve been thinking a lot about other people, how their experiences must be different (or the same), and how they are caught up in a society, economy, and governments that have long had massive shortcomings. I look at photos of hospitals in Brooklyn (of drive-up testing lines in Tampa, a lone vendor on a New Delhi street, elaborately suited sanitation workers spraying the floors of a hospital in Wuhan, half-obscured arms and faces hanging out of various apartment windows). I profusely thank the cashier at the grocery store. I wonder about the McDonald’s employees (every time I’ve driven past the one here in Yucca the drive-thru line has extended into the street (maybe the world isn’t so invisible after all)). My wife and I have been lucky to be merely restless, and every item I hold in my hand at the grocer, every truck I see on the highway, the daily sound of the mailman driving the rutted-out dirt road in front of our house, the semiweekly sound of the garbage collectors, every movie I fire up, every light switch I flip, every glass of water I drink, all remind me now, constantly, of how much I depend on other people. “Privilege” is a word, but it isn’t sufficient.

7. In Street of Shame, Kenji Mizoguchi frequently eschews traditional shot/reverse shot editing for dialogue, instead employing continuous shots of characters arranged in very deep composition, through windows and doorways and down hallways, as they converse. The film is set in a red light district of 1950’s Tokyo, when the prohibition of prostitution was being hotly debated, and explores the lives of brothel workers while the existential threat of their legality looms in the background (often, on radio news reports). The effect of Mizoguchi’s direction (and Kazuo Miyagawa’s cinematography) imparts a sense of claustrophobia and tunnel-vision―characters trapped by different layers of fate. At the same time, it highlights their will and ingenuity, the elaborate social (and staged) choreography they use to keep themselves going.

8. One of the most necessary people in the world is the grandparent. Grandparents have always played an important role, often numerous roles, assisting overburdened parents with childcare; lending knowledge, experience, and emotional support; being a chauffeur, a cook, a maid, a repairman. Now, with no schools or daycare, their value is even greater. One of the most necessary sectors of the economy is the remittance economy. Without it many regions of the world would be unlivable, increasingly so, the more that wealth regionally consolidates. The remittance economy provides critical (if fraught and exploitative) access to those regions of consolidation (I also believe it provides a meaningful act of devotion and heroic narratives of expedition and return). I think a lot about grandparents and migrant laborers during the pandemic, which has been nullifying them. Grandparents, as the group most vulnerable to the virus, have to dramatically limit their interactions with family. Migrant laborers―who literally cannot work from home―face lockdowns, difficult travel, and a contracting economy (and probably increasingly unsafe conditions when they can work).

9. My response to the pandemic, from the specific place that privilege, planning, and luck has put us, has been something like stringent resourcefulness (or ambitions thereof). Buy only what we will absolutely use, in as few and as thoroughly planned trips as we can make. Make use of what we have. If possible, don’t order anything online, or otherwise place stresses on distribution centers and supply chains. Exercise and stay healthy, if mostly immobile. Try to keep days organized, recognizing the inherent limits of time even when time feels endless. Foster my marriage, the one relationship that isn’t cut-off. Say yes to every Zoom and phone call, and make the scheduling work. Wear masks, wash hands, handle as little as possible out in the world. Become, in some ways, invisible. But also deliberate.

10. When we arrived to Yucca Valley, we planned to stay put. We didn’t move the car in five days. During that time, rodents climbed up into our engine block and gnawed on various wires and hoses, damaging a significant amount of the car’s electrical and air systems. Fortunately we were still able to drive it to the mechanic, with alerts going off and very weak acceleration. Repairs cost $1500 and took just shy of two weeks as the pandemic put delays on parts. Since we’ve had it back, I’ve been very nervous about keeping it here. The property owner very swiftly sent us a care package of rodent repellents: peppermint oil spray and an ultrasound noisemaker and light strobe. I installed the noisemaker and every night have been spraying the oil on the tires, wheel wells, CV axles, and front grill, running the engine for a few minutes and driving the car to a new spot on our property. So far we’ve had no new issues. I’ve never worried about rodents damaging my car, but now, and for the rest of my life, I will, at least a little bit. It is a new invisible threat.


11. I had dinner in New York last September with a friend who was elated that his chronic, lifelong illness had maybe, finally, found an effective and sustainable therapy. He was buoyant describing it. I am sad for him that just as he became healthy the rest of the world became sick. I take the liberty to say that my wife and I experience a similar absurdity, that just as we set out to see the world, the world went into hiding.

12. The opening credits of The Big Lebowski feature a flyover of the lights of Los Angeles, where we were supposed to be in April. Watching the credits, and then rest of the film―the casualness of the bowling alley, streets lined with strip malls, thinly rolled joints and CCR on a beater radio, bathrobes and diner coffee, this sense of the plain citizens of a city magically caught up in the elaborate (and elaborately styled) mysteries of that city―I pined for Los Angeles; I felt the loss of it in our itinerary and our lives. Of course it occurred to me, too, that I pined for that Los Angeles, one in which plain things still exist, and you could be a deadbeat and still live in Venice Beach.

13. I’ve been mixing up the word “suspicion” with “superstition” in writing and speech and thought. I amuse myself with a little joke that I am a “superstitious rationalist.” This goes a long ways back, to my teenage years when I struggled with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. I had a working belief in highly ordered superstitions. If I turned a doorknob a precise number of times, then walking through that door would forestall whatever disasters constantly occupied my mind. I could prolong a “good state” (no disasters coming), once attained, by never ceasing movement, resulting in a little tick where I would rub my thumb and forefinger together in endless circles. I did a lot of things like this, and they are worth much longer writings on another occasion. For now to say that for decades I have been in control of my OCD but still see little vestiges of it (for instance, my slightly ritualized way of turning the car on now that I’m worried about rodents). This makes it confusing, sometimes, to understand how to behave during the pandemic. If I don’t leave the house, I won’t get anyone sick―that’s one cause-and-effect thought, but another that I have, almost equally, is that I should always use my red bandannas as a mask. This is just a little fucked up, isn’t it?

14. And superstitions can become suspicions, or vice versa. I see this more when I think about (and judge) how other people behave. I worry tremendously, perhaps most of all, more than anything else with the pandemic, about how suspicious we are becoming. Suspicious that that person, a bit sweaty looking, has the virus. Suspicious that this plastic bag was made in China and thus likewise has it. Suspicious that people are breaking the rules and endangering us (having wild parties in bold defiance, under cover of night, or as here, tucked back in the mountains). Suspicious, rather, that the coronavirus is not as dangerous as has been made out, and that we have shut down the economy and jettisoned millions of jobs for nothing. Suspicious that someone, somewhere, is making a lot of money off of this. Suspicious that when this is over, we will be irretrievably worse off, accustomed to new norms of social distance, new economic orders, new forms, indeed, of suspicion. None of these suspicions is necessarily untrue, but to me (for me) they all behave alarmingly like superstitions, which I am not allowed to have.

15. Judy Davis is absolutely fantastic in Gillian Armstrong’s My Brilliant Career.


16. I am proud of a few resourceful things we’ve done this month, mostly food-related. I soaked, then blended, some of the numerous pounds of mung beans we have, making savory and nutritious pancakes that we’ve tooled into several dishes. I made a delicious vegan mayonnaise with the leftover juice from a can of chickpeas (known as “aquafaba”). I conditioned my exercise bands with coconut oil (usually they need Armor All); I use our hammock straps suspended from our pull-up bar as an olympic ring setup; I can do pretty satisfactory dips on our twin kitchen bins. My wife made fruit leathers with inexpensive frozen strawberries plus overripe bananas; she made potato bark from a cheap bag of russets; she’s cooked and dehydrated three different dals (I’ve done one); she’s pickled several batches of onions and cucumbers in leftover commercial pickle juice. I wiped a sluggish Macbook Pro and put Linux on it (typing now in LibreOffice), learning (yet again) about its quirks, and learning, especially, the photo-editing application Darktable (since I no longer have access to Adobe’s Lightroom; Darktable proves a superior, if harder-to-use, application). My wife made an elaborate meal plan for the next several weeks using the colored pencils and drawing paper in our art supply–appointed rental. She also cut her own hair. We both wear the same clothes for longer than we should.

17. I read the New York Times pretty obsessively and yet I still do terribly on the quizzes.

18. In Robert Altman’s Nashville, a presidential campaign van (for the fictional candidate Hal Philip Walker, running under the “Replacement Party”) is always driving around at the periphery, proselytizing a political sea-change via its loudspeaker. The ensemble cast of characters seem mostly to ignore it, too focused on their personal ambitions and desires (“Neoliberal Subjectivity,” as it were). But for the audience, the constantly droning speech from this mostly invisible source imparts a faint but widespread sense of menace. The film’s timeline leads up to a fundraising gala for the campaign, and there is an increasing anticipation in the film that something bad will happen there, or at least that everything will fall apart. This suspension of ambient dread atop the individual energies of the individual characters lost in their pursuits is one of the most brilliant things I’ve ever experienced in a story. It is similar to the public dread + personal ambitions dynamic of Street of Shame (though more comically employed). And yet what I take away most from Nashville is the desire to see live music, be elbow to elbow with sweaty (70s sweaty) strangers.


19. There is a tremendous amount of both law and marketing being improvised right now. My wife and I encounter the first mostly as we navigate campground and forest closures while we try to figure out what next steps, if any, we can take in our travels. Jurisdictions overlap. I’ve read national, state, county, and municipal documents―from CDC guidelines to gubernatorial executive orders, National Park Service boilerplate to statements from regional BLM field offices. Language shifts and shimmies―squirms, maybe―through neighboring connotations, “stay-at-home” vs. “shelter-in-place” vs. “stay home, stay healthy” “orders” or “recommendations” or “initiatives.” The second―marketing―feels slightly desperate and especially improvised. The Steppenwolf Theatre in Chicago (we were longtime subscribers when we lived there) has been proffering podcasts, videos, virtual performances, or simply “thoughts.” The Greenwood Sip ‘N Ship (who handles our virtual mailbox) has increased their email campaigns, offering words of inspiration and camaraderie (“Kindness is Contagious” and “Six Feet Apart Can’t Keep our Love Away”). REI has altered the approach of their famous sales (the “Inside/Outside” sale, for instance), and the various cottage outdoor brands I follow have been sending emails geared toward planning and training (“No Gear Required: 11 Bodyweight Exercises to Train for Hiking”), encouraging its readers to keep thinking about that next adventure. Law describes and conditions our material reality. Marketing stands in lieu of it. Both are to the side of it. They are, as it were, derivatives. I ask you to remember that word.

20. There are remarkable similarities between Jean Renoir’s The Rules of the Game and Richard Linklater’s Dazed and Confused. They are both portraits of a defined social milieu. They both intermix their ensemble casts in various dialogue combinations (Renoir preferring mobile long shots that poke into different conversations, Linklater lacing together medium shot walk-and-talks) to articulate a complex social network. They both feature an abundance of alcohol. They both have a hunt (Renoir’s is for pheasant and rabbits, Linklater’s for freshmen). They both careen toward an epic party (La Colinière, the Moontower). As such, both also focus a lot on hooking up (Linklater’s is decidedly more innocent). They both have characters who wrestle with the limitations society has given them. Music drives them both. I don’t know maybe I’m describing a lot of movies.

21. I guess my other relationships haven’t been fully “cut-off.” In fact, one joyous aspect of the pandemic has been Zooming with old friends. A major motivation of our trip was to reconnect with people from whom we’ve grown―if still occasionally connected―mostly estranged. Zoom calls are a poor substitute for the deeper and more sustained engagements we had in mind, but they do evince a new commonality, a will to be together despite the quarantines (and, I would argue, the separate social and economic demands) that keep us apart.

22. I love Goddard’s Breathless even though I am weary of every character type in it.

23. Mine and my wife’s 10-year wedding anniversary is May 1. Six months (plus one day) prior to that date, I woke up just before 6AM to spam with my keystrokes so I could get a choice coastal camp in Big Sur. In many places, especially California, this kind of behavior is necessary. I succeeded, and we’ve looked forward to our stay there. Upon the pandemic, the campground we selected (Kirk Creek Campground in the Los Padres National Forest) was closed. That closure went through April 30th, one day into our reservation. But our entire reservation was canceled. I was notified of this just as I was about to jump in the shower. I took a shower, then got back onto to see if I could rebook the rest of our itinerary. In that time (my shower), someone else had booked our site. Most of the rest of the camp was also booked. I will be frank about my anger with this maddening dynamic. The campground is emptied, and yet then it is made rapidly full. I am competing with both forces simultaneously. People, in both cases, and in oddly the same way, are the problem. I am also a person.


24. These are the sounds where we are: dirtbikes and ATVs, dogs (many dogs) barking, roosters, a pig, a donkey (hilariously cliché, “hee-haw, hee-haw”), the minute clacking sound of lizards running across the rocks of our driveway, the surprisingly heavy sound of wingbeats from many kinds of birds (from hummingbirds to doves to enormous ravens), lots of chirping, ambient highway noise, ambient wind noise.

25. Of course The Big Lebowski also employs a peripheral menace: this aggression will not stand, geopolitical uncertainty conditioning the super (media: Bush Sr. on the TV at the grocery store) and sub (dreams: Saddam Hussein handing the Dude his bowling shoes during his Rohypnol dream sequence) consciousness.

26. Surely we’ve all had some difficulty understanding public health guidelines. Mostly we should be at home―got that. But is it OK to go to the park sometimes? Should I shop at the grocery store rapidly? How often should I wash my clothes? Going back and forth over what’s right and what’s wrong has, I’ll bet, made some of us feel, if ever so faintly, like a criminal. Is being, merely, outside, illegal? What about driving in my car, touching this handrail, letting my mask slide this far down my face? Is it criminal to see my mother? As a longtime (i.e. before any states legalized) user of cannabis, I’m fairly comfortable with a diffuse sense of criminality. I’m also good at recognizing it, and finding, for what it’s worth, entertainment in it.

27. People are literally dying.


28. Thinking about thinking a lot about certain things: I’ve been captured by a notion introduced to me by Michael Allen Gillespie’s excellent, if unwieldily titled, Hegel, Heidegger, and the Ground of History. In his history of the philosophy of history, Gillespie discusses a Heideggerian concept that supposes a development of rationality into the hyperrational. Bear with me. The idea is that the project of rationality (i.e. the Enlightenment, democracy, and capitalism) has lead to a hyperrational state wherein the very forces of liberty, equality, science, and truth are leveraged via technical supremacy to consolidate power, ultimately evaporating “reality” and replacing it with, for lack of a better word, “representation.” So the electoral college process of democracy becomes distorted by severe gerrymandering. The rigors of journalism and the labor of fact-finding and documentation give way to the cheaper content of talking heads, and then to the even cheaper content of audience opinion (i.e. social media). Politicians are no longer legal scholars or decorated veterans but celebrities, and not even celebrities but “reality” TV celebrities. Our economy implodes not because of drought or war or even fear, but the insubstantiation of debt and speculation and “derivative instruments” (did you remember?). Human experience is replaced by law and marketing (and photography and videos and emojis). In all of these cases power leaps from reality to the representation of reality (from gold to “trust”), where greater efficiencies and scales lie. Except that Heidegger (and many other important philosophers) would probably argue that it’s not so much a leap from reality to representation but a radical exposition of reality as only, ever and always, representation. There is no ontology, only epistemology. There is not thought, only language. No truth, only games. And yet within this radicality, within the specific history of its intellectual development (i.e. the Twentieth Century), the emergence of “mankind” has been profound (here I’m citing Foucault and The Order of Things), recourse to humanity as an inviolable narrative, an exceptionally real nucleus negotiating an unreal world.

29. Zombieland was just satisfying, for whatever stupidities it exploits (do we really need a love interest in this?). Fuck you, apocalypse.

30. I should mention here that I am anxious, but not necessarily fearful. This is maybe tied up in my OCD. I sense dread, immensely, but in terms of the system and not necessarily myself. I don’t mean to be saintly about this, just trying to understand myself. I worry about maintaining my relationships and what others think of me, but I am not, as best as I can suss out, afraid of dying.

31. National Lampoon’s Vacation, directed by the still underappreciated Harold Ramis (and starring the skilled if somewhat insufferable Chevy Chase, who struck me this go-round as something of a reup of Jacques Tati but with speaking lines and a libido), gratifies mine and my wife’s situation by positing a roadtrip (“holiday ro-ohhhhhh-ohhhhh-ohhhh-ohhhh-ohhh-ohhhh-ohhhh-oh-od”) across the American West that ends in an abrupt closure of the promised land. I want to punch that fucking moose right in its fucking nose.


32. And so maybe our humanity is secured by the emergence of “mankind,” except that I am reminded of the opinions of numerous polar scientists, which are paraphrased deftly in Werner Herzog’s Encounters at the End of the World. Spend enough time in the worrisome mental perambulations of pandemic thought and one will undoubtedly arrive at climate change as an even more horrifying future. Much of the communication of climate change is anchored in a concept of human stewardship, of the Anthropocene, of our own fault, responsibility, and possibly redemption. Like many I believe climate change is our greatest task ahead, that we have to exercise our great powers responsibly, caringly. And yet how do the polar scientists of Herzog’s film feel? We should be so arrogant to think that we have control. This is not the Anthropocene. Nature is always in control. When we exceed its allowances, Nature will simply regulate us.

33. So the coronavirus. Are we the inviolable nucleus of reality navigating the indeterminacies of an unreal world? Nay, we are merely hosts of an even greater indeterminacy, the not-even-DNA-complete force of a virus. We have become derivative to life itself.

34. OK that’s enough of that. I should probably walk this back a little bit. Look I can get kind of goth sometimes, as a lover of German philosophy, as a recovering obsessive-compulsive. It’s late April, and yes April is the cruelest month, but things are looking up. “Mankind” might be a myth, but I believe in the human will, because I see it everyday during this god damned thing, the smartest, hardest working people (it goes without saying that the US president is not included in this description) employing unprecedented technologies (which humans have built) and sharing their knowledge and skills at breakneck speed to try and beat this thing. I’m suspicious that the pandemic might even help us see more clearly, understand how connected we really are, realize that Nature needn’t regulate us, that we can in fact regulate ourselves. My wife and I will celebrate our 10-year anniversary right here in Yucca (extending our stay), cooking a great meal and working on a playlist of the music that has been most meaningful to us during our marriage. We plan to get back on the road soon―probably not the California coast, more likely southern Utah―as long as we can do it responsibly. I want a better world, but there is still no other world, and no other time, I would rather live in.

Yucca Valley, CA, April 27, 2020

Mardi Gras

I first noticed the ulcer on my tongue in City Park in New Orleans on the third weekend of Carnival. I was sitting down with friends to little paper bags full of beignets and powdered sugar, next to cups of chicory coffee mixed with milk, at an outpost of the famous Café du Monde. I noticed the powdered sugar irritating the right side of my tongue. Beignets are already a little bit awkward to eat, and I found myself going at them more and more askew, increasingly favoring the left side of my mouth (where many years ago I had a molar removed and never replaced), slowly working the dough into a mash soft enough to swallow. It wasn’t the most enjoyable experience of beignets, though the warm, creamy coffee provided some succor. I knew right away that a canker sore was coming, forming as a little polyp on a spot where my tongue met my teeth. By the next day, at Willie Mae’s Scotch House, I was avoiding the right side of my mouth completely, softening the fried okra and delicate red beans with copious amounts of iced tea. I was starting to talk with a lisp, and I was grateful that my friends were leaving that afternoon, not because I was eager to see them go, but because it meant I could sit silently and watch movies for the rest of the day, drinking little cups of whisky. When I woke up the next morning opening my jaw and pulling my tongue away from my teeth felt like ripping duct tape off of sutured-up sunburn. I teared up a little bit, hurrying to the bathroom to gargle some water. The sore was grayish-white and nearly a quarter inch across, alarmingly deep. Little bubbles of spit foamed in its concavity. I stared at it in the mirror while construction equipment―tractors and backhoes and such―passed by outside, softly quaking the house.

I quickly began a regimen of saline gargles, avoided sugar and salt dustings (up until then, I was delighting in coating everything in a Slap Ya’ Mama, a simple and delicious (if unfortunately named) cajun seasoning found widely throughout Louisiana), and began with a full-on Daffy Duck slur, trying to keep the canker sore completely outside my dental complex, which made for some amusing conversations with my wife. By evenings, my tongue was tired and strained from the altered biomechanics. Eating was so laborious I lost my appetite; kissing was painful and made me feel like a mutant; I was getting humidity headaches; anything carbonated (mostly, beer) stung sharply, as did anything acidic (mostly, wine). Whisky was the best relief, and I bathed my tongue in it, enjoying the numbing effects with a giddy I haven’t felt in what must be at least a decade. I had absurdly little time to convalesce, mere days before eleven of our friends would arrive in waves for Mardi Gras weekend. My wife and I took it easy, running errands and getting the house cleaned up; the weather shifted around restlessly and you could feel the city and its traffic in kinds of high-intensity intervals, a start-stop arrhythmia that felt anxious and unsure. I was irritable but mellow. I tried very hard not to move my tongue, for any reason whatsoever.


We spent 29 days in New Orleans, pretty much the entirety of the Carnival season. We had 15 different guests, went to 9 parades, saw (I estimate) 20 music shows (not counting street musicians or marching bands), drank 6 liters of whisky, 15 or so of wine, and caught around 80 pounds of beads. These aren’t necessarily impressive numbers (we also watched, easily, 30 hours of television), but I mention them to satisfy a weird desire to quantify our time in New Orleans. Because while we spent an entire month there, it was an artificial month. It was Mardi Gras, and we don’t have jobs, and our experience as longtime tourists ran messily against the complexities of the city, which were so present around us, so unhidden.


Beignets and chicory café au lait at the Café du Monde.

I want to say it right away: I think New Orleans is the most American city in America. True, New Orleans is pretty singular, quite unique, but many cities have their unique qualities (New York, as the center of the world, is also uniquely New Yorkish (though perhaps long in the process of losing that)). True, New Orleans is on a far-flung edge, the Gulf Coast, the Deep South. But it absorbs these regional qualities within an American way of being that is much larger than them. It unites the north and the south (in politics, sensibility, accent), the urban and rural (and suburban), the extravagant and the impoverished. Its roads are complete shit (and the remnants of the collapsed Hard Rock Hotel remain in its skyline), but there’s fat, salt, and sugar in damn near everything. It has brand new parks and age-old sewage. It’s very segregated on one hand and yet famously integrated culturally. It bears the ineffable time stamp of a catastrophe (Hurricane Katrina) in a way few other cities do, and yet this time stamp powerfully exemplifies the contemporary catastrophes that have defined all of America in the past decades (9/11, the 2008 economic collapse, mass shootings, political upheavals). It’s artsy and fratty. It’s touristy and proudly local. It’s full of violence and love. Mardi Gras, its most famous indulgence, is predicated on abstinence. Its grand metaphor is jazz.

I say all of this casually, and as I’m wont to do in these writings, please take the caveat that I don’t mean to offer anything definitive―indeed this is the impression of an unrooted tourist doing little else for the city than spending money there. These thoughts are contextualized by my own baggage. Which is to say: New Orleans did far more for me than I could ever do for it. All of this complexity was, for me, a needed affirmation of a true reality in a time of bewilderingly hyperreality (this will remain a theme of these writings). This is true even of the masquerade of Mardi Gras, which I found remarkably devoid of mediatization, remarkably old school, as it were. It is alive and well and fully in the streets and real gatherings of real communities, buoyed by the efforts (and dollars) of thousands and thousands of people, numerous organizations (krewes and sub-krewes), and around two centuries of traditions. It persists unapologetically, and I say that because there is plenty about it at which to be aghast. Even forgoing the stupidities of Bourbon street, an outsider might notice the incredible excess of plastic in the parade throws (shout-out to the Arc of New Orleans, one of the only organizations with a bead recycling (combined with job rehabilitation) program―this was the final destination of most of our 80 pounds). Or one may pause in front of the masking, some of which has racist echoes, like the eerily klan-like masks found in many of the larger krewes or the signature black makeup―which many outsiders might construe as black-face―of The Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club (this is, by the way, one of the very best parades in all of Carnival, taking place the morning of Mardi Gras day). Yet the the complex of these moral confusions among all of the other (less troublesome) signs and motifs and fetishes of Mardi Gras amounted to a tremendous reassurance for me. Somewhat like our experience of the Everglades, Mardi Gras felt completely its own: tenacious, proud, bold, very, very alive. That I want to analyze it feels mostly useless.


A float in the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club parade on Mardis Gras day.

Besides, we were there to party. And party we did. It was, in two words, absolutely amazing to have so many friends come join us. We stayed in Bayou St. John, a block off the Lafitte Greenway, which made for an easy walk through the Treme and into the French Quarter. We caught early parades like Krewe Bohème and Krewe du Vieux in the quarter with some of my oldest friends from childhood, feeling high and giddy afterward among the incredible (almost all homemade) costumes at an after-party at The Black Penny on Rampart. We saw some of the larger family parades (Carrollton and King Arthur) on a relaxed weekend in uptown with a poet-friend and old colleague following an extensive and what ended up being private tour of St. Louis No. 2 cemetery. We had a mega crush of guests for the Super-Krewe parade Endymion, before which my wife and I danced to Bruce Springsteen covers at their Samedi Gras street party and after which we hosted an impromptu party at our house in a sea of beads and blinking trinkets (our defacto niece was fully wound up). We triangulated the routes of Red Beans and Dead Beans to catch them nearly at their intersection, finding their goofy and brilliant designs (all made out of beans) a lovely alternative to the more gaudy (and again, insanely plastic-heavy) conventional parades.


A very crowded Bourbon Street on Mardi Gras day.

And, impossibly, after weeks of parades and nights stumbling the quarter or Frenchman street or the Bywater, we woke up at 8am on Mardi Gras day, smeared some stale grocery store King Cake into our faces, packed whatever beers we had left, and made it to the sidewalk side of Zulu just blocks before its terminus at the Social Aid and Pleasure Club in the heart of the Treme. We were there for nearly six hours, screaming in adoration, dancing to fantastic marching bands, drinking warm tallboys of Highlife and snacking on anything that was available, many of us paying to use a nearby porta-potty. After the parade we walked through the massive street party on Claiborne under the I-10 overpass (also the gathering of many of the Second Line parades (it should be noted that before the highway was constructed in the 60s, this used to be a beautiful, live oak–lined street that defined the Treme, one of the most important black communities in America; to hear horn bands echoing against the concrete is to hear a kind of defiance, a tenacity). From there we headed down into the quarter, buying (surprisingly good) pizza on Bourbon street, then making our way to Marigny in search of what we remembered to be a relaxed and delightful bar (the Royal Street Inn), hoping for crowd-respite there but of course, in our uninformed tourism, finding instead the massive gathering of the Society of St. Anne walking parade, a true locals parade characterized by elaborate costumes of various themes (eighteenth century French court life remains a persistent one, via krewes such as The Merry Antoinettes; we were within fifty feet of a powdered wig for most of Mardi Gras night; and yes this is a pretty stark “white” contrast to the Zulu parade). From there we split up a bit, and a smaller group of us went club hopping on Frenchman street, in search of a good brass band, eventually finding it at the Blue Nile, where the Marigny Street Brass Band took the stage at 9pm.

Musically, for me, one of the best traditions of New Orleans music is the Second Line–style brass band: usually tuba/sousaphone, trombone, trumpet, saxophone, a snare player, and a bass drum and cymbal player, with maybe a guitarist or keyboardist, but not necessarily. It’s parading music as much as it is dancing music, and it has a mix of tresillo shuffle, swing, and funk that I find absolutely intoxicating. Talk to a New Orleanian and they might mention the Rebirth Brass Band as a fundamental group. I heard it everywhere on loudspeakers but seemed always to miss it in its live forms, save the occasional street ensemble or a distant, undefinable echo. I think, probably, I wasn’t staying up late enough most nights. But Mardi Gras I did, and it felt like my holy New Orleans grail to see such a good band, dance so freely, clutching my Zulu medallion beads to keep them from snapping free but also, of course, in a kind of communion, as best as I could be allowed. My tongue still hurt, but it only made sense―that organ of appetite and expression, overwhelmed by a city engaging both at the fullest.



The rumored real tomb of Marie Laveau in St. Louis No. 2 (affectionately called the “Faux Laveau”)


I got into taking these tableaux of parade litter


Charlie and the Tropicales doing their Monday night set of French Caribbean tunes at the wonderful Bacchanal in the Bywater.


Under the I-10 overpass, Claiborne Ave, after the Zulu parade on Mardi Gras day.


St. Anne and other masqueraders in the Marigny on Mardi Gras day.


More photos here:

―Sam Houston National Forest, March 02, 2020



The Everglades


A brown pelican aloft above Jewell Key in the Florida Everglades

Probably the first thing I ever got serious about was playing the drums. The interest initially came about because of friends; I remember the music teacher visiting our fifth grade classroom, demonstrating various instruments, and while I liked the trumpet, my friends signed up for the drums, so I did, too. I took lessons for one year, then moved from Baltimore to the suburbs of Chicago, starting middle school. The drums were the only interest I really knew how to take with me, and I clung on to them during that difficult social transition (new city, no friends, right at the start of adolescence), so I signed up for band. Within the year I was pretty obsessed. I’ve played the drums ever since, even deep into my thirties, and while I was never dedicated enough to try to make a livelihood of it, playing the drums has been one of my greatest joys in life, and it has definitely had a profound impact on my mind and the way I organize my universe.

Which is to say, it has made me think about nearly everything as bound to a rhythm. This is undoubtedly true about my writing, and the drums are probably the reason I became a poet. But it is also everywhere else. In working life, it defined my daily routines, the process of making coffee and breakfast, of catching certain buses, the flow of emails and reports, of meetings and casual conversations, the rhythms of computers and the dance-like navigation of interfaces, buildings, and streets; it organizes the energy of a week, the goals of a month, and the meaningfulness of a year. An ingrained sense of rhythm is probably why I’ve always felt so comfortable in the Midwest, with its well-defined seasons and associated cultural calendars. Of course, I have no special claim to rhythmic thinking―maybe just that I have been especially sensitive to it―and in fact I think of rhythm, patterning, and beat, with their emphasis on anticipation and memory, as a universal human expression. They are forms of time travel. The next time you listen to your favorite song, feel yourself waiting for the chorus (or simply clap your hands on the downbeats and feel what lapses in between): that held breath, that attendance. You are living in the now, the then, and the will be all at once. You are transcending time in a special way. You are, as many might say, in the groove.

Traveling on this trip has overturned my sense of rhythm. It’s been one of the more surprising elements, even as I have been anticipating its dynamic. I’ve made numerous lists of daily routines to keep me “regular,” and I’ve barely followed them. My waking and sleeping times have been affected by shifting time zones and whatever schedules are dictated by the cities I’ve been in and the people whom I’ve been with. I can go a whole day just eating snacks, or I can have three huge meals, and for the most part it all feels the same. I’ve been undercaffeinated and overcaffeinated; I’ve been hungover, exuberant, or focused seemingly at random. For money and crowd reasons, my wife and I have inverted our weeks, going out on Mondays and Tuesdays and staying in on the weekends (though even that, too, is changing now that we are here in New Orleans, hosting groups of friends every weekend). I feel like my fingernails and beard are growing more quickly, in need of more frequent grooming. I’ve been cycling my clothes differently, more like backpacking, with daytime and nighttime outfits I wear through a succession of days (it’s easier this way living out of a bag), so outfits have started to define little periods of three or four days. Waiting out an additional ten minutes on the clothes dryer in the garage of our rental can feel interminable, and yet days on the road feel like a passing thought, a small dream of podcasts and traffic and variously clouded skies, of gas station picnics and hurried campstove dinners under dusk and then headlamp. I’m a week late in getting to these writings, and even now paused them to talk with some friends for half an hour. New friends arrive in New Orleans tomorrow. Mardi Gras is less than two weeks away. In four days we will have been on the road for two months.

We spent our first few days in Florida staying with my wife’s parents in their new condominium in North Naples. It was great to be there with them in the newness of their retirement winter home in the very midst of its final touches, and while we went out for happy hours, the beach, and even dancing, a lot of our time was sharing in our sort of mutual retirements, getting acquainted with new routines, a new home, really a new sense of living (less new for them, to be sure). I have been thinking a lot about one specific aspect of their renovations: when we first arrived in Naples, they had just put their kitchen shelves up and were frustrated by delays with their counter-top installation, which was supposed to have been complete by our arrival but was not. We spent a few days pretty much without a kitchen, eating sandwiches and washing our dishes in the bathroom sink, then my wife and I left for five days to paddle the Everglades, and when we returned the counter tops had been installed. I felt a domestic meaningfulness to that magical appearance, as though the ability to cook in that kitchen underscored something my wife and have been cultivating for a long time.

We joke, though I think with considerable truth, that we were able to save for this yearlong trip simply by eating-in all the time. Being on the road, we’ve been learning the ropes of our new food routines, and it has felt good being in apartments in Nashville and now New Orleans, not only to be able to cook but to plan a week’s worth of meals, to be more deliberate and joyful about going out to eat and not just needing to grab fast food (though a veggie burger in a brewery you’ve never heard of is often both quite reliable!). I have much more to say about this, about grocery and market shopping across the country, regional cuisine and the way foods signal heritage or gentrification, about our own mobile kitchen and pantry, our evolving cache of homemade dehydrated backpacking food (our food dehydrator rides in the roofbox of our car), and more, all for a different set of posts, and hopefully with input from my wife, the executive chef of our lives. For now just to say that I very much think of our time in Naples with my wife’s folks as characterized by the inability and then ability to use a kitchen.

What I want to talk about now is wilderness. Much of the later months of our trip will be defined by wilderness, and in many ways this is seasonally deliberate. That Carnival takes place in February only helped cement the plan that we would spend our urban time (and accommodations budget) during the winter and spring months (all of February here in New Orleans; all of April in Los Angeles), and when the north (and the mountains) are gradually opened up by warmer weather, we’d shift modes. But we did want to mix this up a little bit, and next month, March, we’ll be almost entirely on the road, heading through wilderness areas in Texas and the southwest, with trips planned for Big Bend and the Grand Canyon, and probably more trips we’ll improvise along the way (we will also spend some time in cities like Austin). And of course one of the main reasons we went to Florida in January, apart from visiting our family, was to paddle the Everglades, a trip we’ve been thinking about for many years now.

I have been bewitched by wilderness for, well, all my life, but especially the last five years or so, right when we started thinking about going to Alaska (which we did in 2016, and we will do again this year). It’s one of the main reasons I wanted to move to Seattle (along with poetry and an incredible opportunity with my favorite press), and during this span of time we’ve gone backpacking at least once a month (during the summer nearly every weekend). My enthusiasm for wilderness during our sabbatical is so great I have to manage it, try not to get obsessed looking at topo maps for a trip four months from now when I should be planning the upcoming week. I had thought of this time in the Everglades as something of a prelude, but I was kind of wrong to think that way. It was itself, it’s own thing, full of surprises, lessons, and other communications, some of which seemed to resonate with the imaginary of our future wilderness trips and others that stood obstinately apart. It forced us to be present to itself as ourselves with an especially demanding attention―not just present to the moment and its qualities (weather, distance, etc) but present to our own assumptions, applicable and nonapplicable knowledge and skills, satisfactory or unsatisfactory research (ask me where Crooked Creek chickee is sometime), our own energy or fatigue.
Coming from Naples, our obvious put-in would be the Gulf Coast side, near Everglades City and Chokoloskee. Permits at Everglades National Park are all first-come, first-served, but the only real anxiety we had was securing chickees―elevated wooden platforms scattered throughout the remote backwater mangrove labyrinths, a unique and wonderful camping experience (and with tight quotas, since you can only fit two parties on each). We had rented a long, aluminum canoe (read: a slow tank) months in advance, but didn’t know what our route would be until the day before, when we woke up early and drove the hour south, watching the primrose sunrise scatter egrets and pelicans across the low-lying swamps of Big Cypress, arriving to a fairly empty backcountry office and our pick of camps. With high winds the first couple of days (and upon the recommendation of the ranger), we opted to start in the backwaters, camping two nights on the chickees as we paddled south along the wilderness waterway, emerging then into the open bay (with now calmer winds) where we paddled out to some of the farther keys to camp on remote beaches nearly to ourselves, slowly heading back north and then east into the passes of the Ten Thousand Islands to complete our loop.

Everglades 2020 ROUTE

Our route

Apart from unusually cold weather the first few nights (which we were hardly bothered by given all of our mountain experience) everything went almost 100% to spec. The largest challenge of the trip was marine navigation, which we have pretty much zero experience with. If you can read a USGS topo map then you can read a NOAA chart (swapping out contour lines for water depths), though doing so with a partner while also trying to keep on bearings in high winds and not run a-shoal on low tides in the very shallow Everglades will test any newbie (and any marriage). Not to mention the fact that islands and passages can hide behind each other in ways that mountains have more difficulty with (being so tall and noticeable!), so you really have to navigate by bearing (or GPS location, as we ended up doing). Paddling is also a different kind of exertion than hiking, and in tides, currents, and winds, your sense of progress, pace, and rhythm can get fairly messed up. A head wind, for instance, blowing ripples toward you along the surface of the water, will make it look like you are cruising forward, when in fact you are barely moving. A tailwind, just by virtue of its insistence, will make you feel like you are struggling, when in fact it’s assisting you mightily. Any seasoned paddler has a good feel for these things, but we are not exactly seasoned paddlers. And need I repeat: we were in a canoe, a fact that gave pause to most of the few people we encountered (in fact, we only saw one other group of canoeists the entire time).


Triple checking the GPS that that is, in fact, Pavilion Key, before we paddle across the open water.

Overall, though, these were enjoyable challenges, and they reminded us helpfully of the fact that, while not tucked high up in mountains, the Everglades are still a remote and rugged place (as it happens, a kayaker got lost and stranded for several days during the same week we were there; he was safely rescued). They are true wilderness, an important and fragile one, home to a wonderful community of alligators, sharks, rays, dolphins, lizards, crabs, raccoon, and especially fish, and especially especially, birds. We encountered all of these creatures almost constantly. The sound of brown pelicans splashing noisily into the waters, or of dolphin exhaling wet gustos of breath, or mullet fish leaping and plopping in goofy rhythms all around our chickees (shining a headlamp on them makes them freak out even more), or the morning cacophony of roosting ibis, became the backdrop noise of our time there, like the sounds of traffic or construction. The diversity reminded us―in a way that the even the dense and lush forest of the Pacific Northwest haven’t quite done―of what is at stake in our changing world. The spirit of a mountain forest surrounds you, but apart from the occasional visit from a jay or a bear or even a herd of elk, the forest feels for the most part only barely populated. A great forest is more like a temple than a city, and in many ways that’s why I love them. But the Everglades, and the transitional marine environment they encompass, is indeed a city, chock full of inhabitants. Every single mullet fish that lept, every gull or pelican that swooped down in front of us, had a remarkably perceptible intentionality, a purpose, a pursuit, a narrative, a life and above all a dignity in that life. Egrets standing tall on the hunt above the shallows in which they wade, leaping sting rays, the arcing paths of sharks’ dorsal fins, dolphins cruising the shorelines in small groups, even lone gators sunning on a haul-out―all of these actions increasingly imparted to me this sense of dignity. And while it felt so abundant, it also felt so fragile, as I know these areas are one of the front-lines of climate change. Traveling from Florida to New Orleans along the gulf, spending time on the thin barrier islands of the Gulf Islands National Seashore and, just last week, Grand Isle here in Louisiana, that sense of fragility was even more stark. These are places that will be the first to be erased by rising seas. They are extraordinary places, rookeries and harbors, long, singular extensions that bring land and sea together in wild, wind-swept communion. They will be in my imagination, now, forever.


Entering the backwaters via the Turner River.


An elegantly preening ibis perched among the mangrove roots.


Crooked Creek chickee.


Smiling alligator. Shot from our chickee on Sweetwater Bay.


How low can this pelican go? Just offshore of Jewell Key.


One of the more perfect sunsets on remote Pavilion Key.

You can view a full set of our Everglade (with a few other places) photos here:

―February 13, New Orleans, LA

Nashville and Memphis

In my sleeplessness I can hear the traffic picking up on Vanderbilt Beach Road here in North Naples, Florida, where we are staying with my wife’s parents. The sound is not dissimilar to that of waves lapping against a beach or gentle undulations of wind through a forest canopy, though it’s reminding me now of all the early mornings in Chicago years ago when I would lay in bed in our condo, which sat at the corner of two busy streets, Grand and Western, that would express a swelling morning urgency in that short predawn dark in which, in more religious places, prayers might instead be heard. It’s the sound of activity, commercium, plans, of rush hour, and these past days in blissed-out Florida it has mixed with recurring dreams of work, of trying to return to work, or apply for work, dreams in which I would find myself among former colleagues populating made-up places, the twenty-somethings of long-ago jobs now middle-aged and focused, directing me through the interiors of elaborately vertical high-rise buildings with complicated elevators or labyrinths of interconnected campus buildings (in my dream last night I was at the University of Chicago, where I used to work, though it was, of course, not actually like U of C, but instead some newly built educational park, its buildings characterized by cantilevered joists and massive angles of glass, polished concrete, sporadic seating, and even temperatures as you move from room to room). In all of these dreams trying to reenter work is not going well―I can’t login to the computers, I don’t get the inside jokes, I don’t know the keycodes, the directories, or the abbreviations ; I try to fake it but fool no one; I’m gently mocked; I’m a source of some annoyance, even to those who know me, who vouched for me, who I remember liking me before. As I cycle from these dream scenarios to actual consciousness, lying in bed listening to the road, I can feel, or mentally visualize, the sunrise, the gorgeous pink dawns of Florida slowly articulating the palm trees and bougainvillea, making the glassy surface of the subdivision’s pool and that of its manicured pond glow in slowly changing colors of pink and blue and purple, until the day is established and the waters assume their hard reflection of the uniform, blue sky and whatever geometries of buildings and landscaping interrupt it. I feel already kind of stoned and incapable, the day not even begun. Then I slowly think of the few things I need to do. Then I remember we are about to impeach the president.


I am ashamed to admit that I’ve been a little nervous to drive through the south, afraid of my interactions with people as someone with a northern accent, afraid of antagonism, contempt, or even just my own anxieties increasing as I see more and more signs of our difference. I’ve been especially anxious to enter “Trump Country.” But I’ve been surprised to see (see) hardly any signs of Trump support at all, and these have been days on highways and two-lane country roads (most of our drive through southern Alabama and Georgia was a string of two-lane roads), the very days leading up to his impeachment. No rallies over road -spanning bridges, very few lawn signs or flags, at most half a dozen bumper stickers,. I’ve been joking that we’ve seen more confederate flags than MAGA hats, though even the flags have been just a few (of note, one particularly massive one on a property next to I-75 in central Florida).

But the view from the road is extraordinarily shallow, and in any case it’s a completely naive and imperial attitude to assume you can understand the totality of a place, or even define a place such as “the South.” Instead we’ve been trying to approach something more like a “heartland” or “spirit-land” of America, through the specific tourist enjoyment of music, especially country (especially bluegrass) and soul. We will be going to New Orleans in February, and no doubt this little project will continue there, but for this section we were anchored by two places/experiences: seeing the Grand Ole Opry in the Ryman auditorium in Nashville and visiting the site of STAX Records in Memphis, which has been rebuilt into an excellent museum of American soul music.


The original mixing board from STAX studios.

We got to Nashville after a great visit with some family in Louisville, and we stayed in a cozy loft above an alleyway garage. Nashville as a whole is booming, that’s the general consensus from locals. There’s been an explosion of new restaurants and bars, a spike in real estate, and an overwhelming aggravation of traffic over the past five years or so (this is a very similar attitude we encountered in Seattle, also famously exploding). It’s been marketing itself as a bachelorette party capital, and whether you are wandering the Gulch on a glitzy afternoon of brand-name shopping (though, why would you do that?) or drinking tall-boys with hipsters in East Nashville, the same sense of change is apparent―Nashville has become a destination for young people. I have felt a slight sense of carpetbaggery to this boom, but it also seems to fit perfectly within Nashville’s historic commercial motivations, shaping and packaging southern culture for national audiences, especially via country music.

It is this sense of packaging that has been particularly interesting to me because, as with other forms of cultural export (Italian cooking, the French language), it relies on an expert knowledge of techniques and tropes, which are recombined over and over to make new things, things that are pleasing, impressive, and confidently indicate an original kind (i.e. things that are “authentic”). I was elated to see two great bluegrass shows, the Sunday night jam session at the Station Inn and then a Monday night show from East Nash Grass at Dee’s Lounge. The former was old-timers, so to speak, and the latter young players (they couldn’t have been older than 30), but in both cases the players’ kinesthetic knowledge of the progressions and scales and their casual but absolute command of the repertoire evinced an uneraseable familiarity, thousands upon thousands of hours of practice (both musically and socially, players jumping in and out, barely a head nod to the next soloist).

What I’m describing, I believe, is tradition. The Grand Ole Opry uses tradition to anchor its presentation of new artists, mixing bluegrass (often comedy-bluegrass) routines with various country standards (travel advice: if you want to see a real celebration of country standards, go to Robert’s Western World on Broadway, which we did numerous nights as our supposed-to-be-nightcap―hardest working country cover bands in America) to help shape the presentation of newer artists (for our show the newer artists were Mark Wills, Mitchell Tenpenny, and the band Seaforth; the headliner was modern country legend Vince Gill). The format of the Opry itself is traditional: an old-time radio revue, complete with an announcer (20-year veteran Eddie Stubbs) who read commercials over the setbreaks. The format, with no subterfuge whatsoever, is entertainment meant to sell: the products of the sponsors, the records of the artists, and the Opry itself.


Dolly Parton, in her interviews on the excellent podcast “Dolly Parton’s America” (which has been our “road-reading” on this segment of our trip; it’s from WNYC, hosted by Jad Abumrad and produced by Shima Oliaee) cites commercial demands often when talking about her songwriting. In listening to her interviews, you get more of that sense of tropes or packaging, writing “blue and lonesome” songs, or “stand by your man” songs, or, as meticulously discussed in one dedicated episode (guided expertly by historian Nadine Hubbs), the “don’t take my man” song. That episode focuses solely on Parton’s hit single “Jolene,” discussing the ways it flips the script on the “don’t take my man” trope. They contrast it to Loretta Lynn’s song “Fist City” (which, incidentally, is one of mine and my wife’s favorite country tunes), which is more in line with the trope―pretty much one woman telling another woman off in a dispute over a man. In “Jolene”, however, there isn’t so much antagonism but a “rhapsodic fixation” on her competitor. There is a wonderful discussion on the podcast of the pacing Dorian scale that Parton uses in the guitar lick, this ancient-feeling lyricism, sensuous descriptions of Jolene’s beauty, all of which leads them to ask whether the song might actually be homoerotic. It’s a great episode and I’d recommend it as a standalone, but the point I take here is that even in Parton’s subversion she’s still cleanly engaging the tropes, the various modes of tradition―it’s not radically new, per se, more upside down. Of course country music has evolved a lot over the decades, but I would still maintain that it’s been within these kinds of parameters, always paying some homage to the past that precedes it, asking the favor, as it were, of Nashville, a well-greased industry town that has worked a tried-and-true formula to slowly advance traditions for new audiences.


Even in a dive bar in East Nashville, the icons reign.

To say that the music of Memphis is the opposite isn’t exactly right, but the motivations are palpably different. I read this David Cohn quote for the first time in a Memphis travel guide: “The Mississippi Delta begins in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel,” and the opening exhibit in the STAX Museum of American Soul Music is the restored Hooper’s AME Episcopal Church originally built in Duncan, Mississippi in 1906 by sharecroppers, former slaves, and others who lived in that area. Being in Memphis I immediately felt that sense of spiritual surrounding, of the Delta following the Mississippi river up to and overflowing Memphis, which has, like Nashville, done it’s own work to mix and package this regional culture. But the orientation to that culture and the overall sentiment of the two cities is pretty different. On our last night in town, we saw a wonderful show at a small bar in Cooper-Young (where we stayed), a fantastic two-piece surf-rock band, The Turnstyles. At one point the drummer apologized for the next song, “Cashville”―“it’s a small knock, really,” he said, “it’s just, they have the money, we have the soul.”

Drive from Graceland to the STAX museum, and you’ll go through some somewhat impoverished parts of Memphis. Even immediately around Graceland the contrast is jarring: this opulent home of an American icon, one of the main tourist destinations of Memphis, surrounded by bedraggled strip malls lining a roughshod road. That’s route 51, “Elvis Presley Blvd,” and to get to STAX you just drive north, going through working-class communities with rundown retail districts and light industrial businesses, discount furniture, auto salvage lots, small churches, some mom-and-pop restaurants. No bachelorette brunches or craft breweries here, though STAX is the anchor of a few revitalization efforts aimed mostly at a youth, a new charter school and music academy that seem to be doing great things for the community.

My feeling, this day we drove from Graceland to STAX (and then on to Sun Records) was: “real people.” That’s kind of a bullshit term, but it’s the one that stuck in my head as we spent time in some of the main neighborhoods where some of soul music’s most iconic songs (and artists) originated. Like country music, soul uses a traditional repertoire of styles and techniques. But there’s something about its expression that has always, to me, felt uniquely direct (and, of course, very emotional)―living out these traditions without the same sense of needing to pay homage to them, to master them, prove one’s credibility by them. STAX reminded me so much of the small independent press I’ve been working for. It’s commercial motivations were more about survival, about making the best art it could and letting it live as widely as possible without compromising its values or betraying the people (the artists, producers, and family members) for whom it was everything. In comparison to the “shine” of Motown, STAX’s gritty soul feels more exploratory, what you might in a high-fallutin’ way call indexical: trying to trust and capture the human spirit as its overcome by the endeavor of its artistry, expressing the struggles and dreams of its people not through configurations of tropes but in moments of musical intensity that might give way onto some kind of truth, and this sense of wanting to be together during those moments. I felt the echoes of this all around Memphis, in the blues jam we went to at Lafayettes and The Turnstyles goofy and but loving show, where covers of both the Zombies’ “Tell Her No” and Tom T. Hall’s “That’s How I Got to Memphis” hit me with equal warmth, this weirdly glad feeling to just be there at that moment with each other in all our individual ways.


I stood here forever.

Driving out of the Osceola National Forest about a week ago, Otis Redding’s “These Arms of Mine” came on, randomly shuffled from the USB stick we keep in our car, and I cried uncontrollably. We had just been to STAX days before, and I watched the video at the Otis Redding exhibit twice. Otis Redding is probably mine and my wife’s top shared musical love. His story is heartwarming and tragic, and “These Arms of Mine,” was his first recording with STAX, done on a whim (much like Elvis’s “That’s Alright Mama”) mostly meant to freshen up a stale session. It’s incredibly simple, unequivocal, and completely overwhelming: “ These arms of mine, they are burning, burning from wanting you. These arms of mine, they are wanting, wanting to hold you, and if you would let them hold you, oh how grateful I will be.” The sentiment is so pure, the longing, and in Redding’s voice, it is fragile and ever so desperate, sung in that slightly dragging rhythm that evinces this cautious but assured attempt at expression, a care, as though the vocalist is looking down at the words and watching each almost parentally as it exits them. The song transcends romantic love. Or rather, it is about romantic love as a form of salvation, though plainspoken, supplication in the simple statement “how grateful I would be.” As the tall, thin pines flickered past us in that narrow avenue we drove through the Florida forest, I was overtaken not by my own desires, per se, but an admiration for the fullness of the human experience this expression of desire proved. I wanted myself to be that full, and I was afraid that I was not.

―January 26, Naples, FL

The start of our roadtrip

It’s January 11, 2020, and it’s been raining all morning here in East Nashville. Earlier, immense winds swept across the neighborhood, and from the window of our little apartment above an alley garage, I watched it mat and swirl this 15 foot stand of bamboo spraying up from the owner’s yard. The bamboo’s resistance gave the wind a three-dimensional feel, more of a solid chimerical entity than a broad force―more animal than weather. The thunder, too, has been 3-D, roiling in various distances on the full perimeter of our lofted space, making shapes or signs or signatures in my mind as I’ve lounged into the afternoon, staring out of the window and into the air that itself has the quality of mud, the bare winter hardwoods blurred scrawls ornamented here and there with the brilliant, rain-soaked, red-feathered cardinals that these past few days have been flitting at every periphery.


With the sun at our backs in eastern Montana

This is the beginning of a year-long trip my wife and I are taking across America. Or anyway, it feels like the beginning, even though we’ve already been through ten states, driving from Seattle on I-90 across the Cascades, northern Rockies, and the high plateaus, plains, and rolling forests between the West Coast and Chicago, where we spent Christmas and New Year visiting friends and family. We’ve also stayed with folks in Minneapolis, Lafayette, Indiana, and Louisville, and have been in Nashville now for half a week or so. Last night we went to the Grand Ol’ Opry, which returns to its original home in the Ryman auditorium downtown every January and February. Being here in Nashville, it’s hard not to think a lot about country music, and I’ve been surprised by how much I’ve connected with the full set of its tenets―its commercialism and professional pop ethos, its rootedness, its poetry, its simplicity, the melodramatic ballads and jumping honkytonks, the taste of cheap beer in the lights and electricity of a good times band. And especially, its nostalgia, which it has cultivated ever since its birth, this feeling that what you want is always just beneath your feet, if you could just figure out how to bend down and touch it.

I have to be as honest as I can: nostalgia has been a dangerous force in America; it’s been violent, racist, and xenophobic, and it has been strategically deployed to garner power for the powerful. I feel it is a major element of what strangles us now, in the form of nationalism, in the fear of others and of porous boundaries, in our inability to conceive of a harmoniously global community. It is a version of uncanny unease, the unheimlich, never totally feeling at-home, or feeling that home has been taken from you (or soon will be). It’s something, with this trip and with this writing (whatever shape it ends up taking), that I am trying to look directly into, for myself, as it might exist in myself, how it shapes my desires and imagination, my frustrations, my depression. Now I am in no way a conservative, and I do not dream of a bygone era in this country, so when I connect whatever nostalgia lurks in me with the nostalgia I associate with conservative America, I mean to do it as an exercise, the most earnest exercise I can employ, to root out my own concept of rootedness at the very time I’ve embraced full mobility, and of course, to try to understand the America I am setting out with my partner to see.

So maybe thinking about a song like “Will the Circle Be Unbroken” (at the Opry last night, they did the Carter/Cash version, making a bit of a comedy routine, stopping the song at “daddy sang bass, mama sang tenor” to pit the registers against each other, to see who could go further into their respective range, who could go lower, or higher, each striving for an ever more distant octave) is a useful starting place to think about America now, and for us, our trip, and what we are seeking to understand. People have been asking us if we are looking for a new home, if we are trying to figure out where we want to land. In a way, we’ve wanted to say yes, but we’ve been hesitant to; it’s not that it’s the wrong question, per se, but more like it isn’t formulated correctly, like it’s in a language we don’t yet know how to speak. I’ve always had a slight cynicism about “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” which is, of course, one of the most important songs in country music history (and a song I have, despite this cynicism, deeply loved). It’s always struck me as ambiguous, as a question, maybe even an interrogation. Is the circle a perimeter or a unity? Is it a form of protection, or one of connection? Is it the gated kingdom for the chosen, or the path by which we are all returned to each other? By and by, lord, by and by, we chorus―there’s a better home a waitin’. Is there?


Here is our plan so far. We are a week in Nashville and then a few days in Memphis. Then we go to visit with my wife’s parents in Naples, Florida, where we will also do a roughly five-day paddle of the Everglades. After Florida we will travel west to New Orleans, where will stay for all of February (that’s all of Carnival and Mardi Gras), enjoying visits from numerous groups of friends. In March, we head farther West, with vague plans to stay in Austin and Houston, firmer plans to backpack in Big Bend National Park, and definite plans (i.e. we already have permits) to hike the Grand Canyon rim-to-rim-to-rim. In April, we rest again, this time in Los Angeles, for another month. May first is our ten-year wedding anniversary, and we will spend it in Big Sur. Then north to the Bay Area to visit friends, then back south to Sequoia, than east across the crest and into the desert, Las Vegas, then hopefully picking up a friend to backpack Chesler Park in the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park, eventually making our way to Colorado by Memorial Day when we hope to see more friends and stay the early season in the mountains. We have tickets for the Telluride Bluegrass Festival in mid-June and plan to do many hikes and backpacks as summer settles in, flying back to Louisville for a family reunion over the Fourth of July. Then back to the Rockies, where, if snowpack allows, we will do a late-July traverse of the Wind River High Route, before heading, likely, to Oregon to celebrate my wife’s fortieth birthday. Then, mid-August, we fly to Alaska, where I hope to complete a three-week trip hiking from Wonder Lake to the park entrance of Denali National Park, my wife and perhaps some friends joining me at various points (my wife will also explore other parts of Alaska). After that, things get especially vague, but our general hope is to make it to the East Coast for the fall, to visit with numerous people there.


Aswirl in the honkytonk

We think it’s a good itinerary, more shored up, naturally, in its earlier parts, with various nodes cast out into the calendar to help anchor our plans and give us a general sense of direction. We’ve been telling people we are hiking and dancing all year, and I’ve enjoyed the celebratory nature of that description. It is a big celebration, but I hope it will also be disciplining, that it will show us better what we need and don’t, how to be with people and alone, how to listen, talk, move, solve problems, and leave no trace. We are doing it all in our car―not a camper or van―and I’ve been joking that we are going ultralight, and that is indeed an earnest set of values I want to cultivate on the trip. We have it all meticulously budgeted. We will try to cook the best food we can for ourselves, eat only in restaurants we really want to eat in, be outside as much as possible, interact with as many people as are willing, exercise, read, take photos, notes, make lists, play games, and constantly check in with each other. Or anyway that’s the idea.

It’s a strange and challenging time for a lot of people. I hear it in their voices, and of course I see it prominently in every form of media, from raging social media posts to the endless furies of cable news to the weird social fantasies of popular shows, the post-apocalypses and other visions of different societies. This year is going to be hard for America, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that we are trying to escape it a little bit. But I also hope we will get beneath it. One of the words that constantly comes up in my mind is “estrangement,” and I think that’s what we are trying to overcome, to connect with real people and real land, and to foster the good.

Right now, my wife is sweeping the floor of our loft while talking to her sister on the phone; a dal is simmering on the stove (our plan is to dehydrate it for the Everglades), and the smell is starting to fill the room. Outside, the rain has stopped and the air is glowing more warmly in the emerging light. The mud seems to have flattened, lying low now in the yards and alleyway, glistening slightly. This is as good a threshold as any; will the circle be unbroken.

―January 11, Nashville, TN